


Am I A Grownup Yet?

by jones2000



Category: Daria (Cartoon)
Genre: Alludes to the 20 Years of Daria interview, Daria just attracts the crazy, F/M, Gets dark halfway through, I really did, I tried not to make Tom the bad guy, Mentions of PTSD, this is why i can't have nice things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-14
Updated: 2020-01-14
Packaged: 2020-03-04 22:26:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 93,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18822001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jones2000/pseuds/jones2000
Summary: It was a week before her thirty-fourth birthday when she came to the stunningly bitter realisation that she had become a world-class sell-out.*For some reason AO3 screwed around my later chapters, but it's fixed now. Apologies*





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written in 2017 for the 20 years of Daria, only posted now because of reasons.

It was a week before her thirty-fourth birthday when she came to the stunningly bitter realisation that she had become a world-class sell-out.

The renowned Daria Morgendorffer was sitting at the news desk beside her impossibly plastic co-anchor when it had hit her like a hammer from God during the light story at the end of the newsreel, the compulsory cutesy conclusion to pick you up after half an hour of death and destruction.

"And finally, Apples the racehorse escaped his trainers this morning, leading a chase through Central Park, being apprehended after stopping for a toffee apple from an obliging vendor." Percy of the perfect hair flashed his perfect veneers at the cameras.

_Smile, tilt head, look engaging, look sweet._

"That's what I call a real sweet- _hoof_."

The hammer hit.

 _"_ _Sweet-hoof."_ Daria muttered. _Oh my God._ "You've got to be kidding me." Perfect Percy stared at her with the morbid fascination of someone watching an eminent nuclear explosion.

The theme rolled across the speakers, and Perfect Percy glanced sideways at her. "Daria?" He whispered through the corner of a smiling mouth. "You okay?"

The producer elbowed his way to the edge of the stage. _'What the hell are you doing?'_ he mouthed furiously, hands clasped together like he was praying to a higher power.

Daria forced herself to speak through her frozen mask of a smile as she shuffled the papers in front of her. "And we've reached the end of our rope for tonight. I know I've definitely reached the end of mine. I'm Daria Morgendorffer."

The producer exhaled audibly as she forced the words through clenched teeth.

"And I'm Percy Longfellow."

"And you're watching the sell-out news at six. All hacks, all the time."

She smiled pleasantly at the camera.

Fade out.

* * *

"You really have a flair for the dramatic, don't you?"

"When I joined the station I was going to change the world. I was going to be Daria Morgendorffer, Girl Reporter. I was going to be hard-hitting, uncompromising, the David Frost of a new generation-"

"Because nothing says _professional_ like nailing down the lid of a President's political coffin-"

"-and now I'm just feeling like an organ grinder's monkey dancing for pennies."

"Aw, I don't think it's quite that bad. You probably don't dance for less than singles."

Daria glared.

"Why did you tell me if you didn't want me to say anything?"

"Sorry. I'm still mentally reeling from the overwhelming realisation that over the years my morals and ethics have slowly eroded to the point that I didn't even realise that I'd sold my soul. I was better behind the scenes, actually _writing._ I can't _write_. It's like my muse has got up and gone, _well, if you don't make better use of me, fuck you._ "

"I always enjoy our talks. They're so uplifting and cheerful." Jane grinned. "As far as quitting jobs go, that was pretty epic. Prime time and everything."

Daria took off her glasses and massaged the bridge of her nose.

"What's worse is that the network has given me two weeks to decide whether I really want to leave. Apparently I appeal to their target intellectual audience."

"Yeah?"

"And the ratings went through the roof."

"Well, we're in the reality TV car-crash generation. The bigger the disaster, the more people watch." Jane said. "I'm just surprised they didn't make you do another take so you could slit your co-anchor's throat with your security pass."

 _Thanks for the support._ Daria sighed. "God, I'm just... eh. I'm sorry. What's going on with the gallery?"

"There. I was wondering when you'd get around to something other than your existential crisis."

"I'm not going to say sorry again."

Jane lent back in her seat, attracting glares from some of the other well-heeled customers in the café as she propped her boot on the edge of the fancy, glass-topped table. "Man, are you _shallow_."

"Ha."

"All the training Marco and I are putting into Bridgette seems to be taking hold. If she's not ready this millennium, then _definitely_ the next."

Jane had met Marco Delgado during BFAC, and she had dragged him along for the ride when opening her own gallery. He was a bit of a snotty bitch with it, but Jane trusted his judgement absolutely in acquisitions and sales. Recently they'd taken on a new girl to cover the galley's expansion, and while bubbly and enthusiastic, she retained information the way a sieve retained water.

"And we've finally got clearance to tear down that wall."

"To knock through to the bank next door?"

"You know me so well. That's why you have to die."

"I can't really see Marco and his manicure with a sledgehammer."

Jane chuckled. "Believe me, that boy may look private school preppy, but he'll knock you flat if you're between him and the new season sales' rack."

"He knows he panders to the cliché, right?"

"Yep, and he has fun doing it." Jane grinned. "You know, I've got it."

"There's probably a pill for that."

"You're hilarious. You need a break, shake up your life, time to get your mojo back and get the creative juices flowing again."

"Would you mind not talking about my juices?"

"Trent and I are going back for the sale of the parental units' house. The auction prospects look pretty good."

"Back? Lawndale?" Daria frowned. "Why are you selling your parents' house? My god, don't tell me I somehow sleepwalked through-"

"Daria!" Jane laughed. "No! Mom and Dad are grey-nomad-ing it up somewhere in Nepal. The house is more or less empty and sucking dry our inheritance. And there's the advantage of stopping Wind's surprise visits and force him to actually _cope_ with the real world."

"Selling the house seems a little extreme just to get rid of your sibling."

Jane just looked at her. " _You're_ seriously telling me that."

"Wait, what am I saying?" Daria raised a hand to her face.

"Hey, you're forgiven. After all, you're still blinded by the arrogance of your own hubris."

"Why do I bother talking to you?"

"I keep asking myself the same thing."

"I really shouldn't-"

"Okay. Then go back to your basement and resume dating married men and serial killers over the internet."

"All right, you bitch, let's go."

And that was that. It was easy enough for Daria to pack up her life once the decision was made. There was no man to pick up after and no pet to farm off to the kennels. She once had a goldfish, who puttered around his bowl until the day Daria came home to find him floating upside down. To this day she was all but positive that he had killed himself out of sheer boredom.

All her important possessions fit into one backpack, which seemed pretty pathetic even by Daria's standards. After shoving some spare shirts into the top of the bag, she stepped back to view her paltry offering.

_Having an identity crisis sucks._

Three hours later, she was on a flight with Jane. A flight home. Lawndale. _What the hell am I doing?_

"Remind me again why I'm doing this."

"Because it was the best offer you had at the time?"

"The sad thing is you're probably right."

"Cheer up. Trent's already there, he'll pick us up."

"I hope you remembered to set all his clocks forward six hours."

* * *

Somewhere in the last ten years, the entrepreneurs and developers had found Lawndale. Strip malls were now boutique stores and the grungy penny arcade was a highbrow theatre housing a troop of Shakespearian actors. There was an independent gallery supporting local artists, and the little weather-beaten town library was now gleaming glass and chrome and had expanded to encompass half a city block.

Lawndale, culture hub.

_I must have missed the memo about Hell freezing over._

"So you gonna see the parentals?"

"I'll have to." Daria heaved a sigh. "Dad always tapes every newscast, so they must already know. I'm surprised Mom hasn't been ringing nonstop."

"Daria, you turned your phone off for the flight and haven't turned it back on."

She fished the tiny electrical contraption out of her carryon. "Oh."

"How did you ever manage to function without me?"

"I hired a boy to do all that for me."

The number of messages were ridiculous. Her producer demanded an explanation for her behaviour. Her colleagues were alternately concerned and amused. Her mother's calls were shrill and furious, demanding to know when exactly it was she had gone insane (Daria ignored those, all two hundred or so), and a surprisingly encouraging text from Quinn.

"Apparently they're calling it Pungate." Jane said.

"Oh, please."

"There's been a push to get rid of puns and cutesy sayings in serious news broadcasts. Reporters find it demeaning and viewers find it embarrassing."

"At least some good has come of my alienation."

"You really are a cup's half full kind of person, aren't you?"

After three stopovers and a stupid amount of running to catch their connecting flights, the plane finally pulled into the new state-of-the-art Lawndale airport, a giant cement behemoth that perched like a hunched vulture over the corpse of Lawndale.

Daria grabbed her backpack from the carousel, before following Jane toward the taxi rank.

"There's Trent's car."

Daria blinked. " _That's_ Trent's car?"

Long gone was the busted blue Plymouth with its rust spots and suspicious sagging, and in its place was a glossy black beast.

"Did you forget to mention the part where your brother joined the mob?"

"Hey. He's almost forty. It was time for a career change. Bada bing, bada boom."

Trent Lane was leaning against the side of the car, smoking. He was as tall and thin and lanky as Daria remembered. Spotting them, he flicked away the butt of his cigarette and jammed his hands in the pockets of his black jacket.

"Hello, sell-out." Jane grinned. "You know that's a disgusting habit."

Trent straightened away from the side of the car, face breaking into a slow smile. "Quit 27 times over the last ten years. I've finally come to terms with the fact that it was never meant to be." He gave his sister a one-armed hug.

"Hey, Daria." He nodded. "Epic showdown with The Man."

"Thanks." She indicated his all-black getup. "And how long have you been a member of Greenday?"

Trent just coughed a laugh, and Daria helped him load their bags into his car.

"You coming with us or staying with Helen and Jake?" Jane asked.

"Um, would you believe I haven't even thought about it? This was all kind of last minute." Daria looked between Trent and Jane. "Where are you staying anyway?"

Jane shrugged. "Trent has a place."

"You do?"

"It's nothing special. Just a place to hang, really." Trent said, in his typical understated way.

The car was as lushly appointed inside as it was fancy outside. The dark leather seat hugged her butt as Daria shifted around to get into a comfortable position. She briefly wondered who he had to whack to get it. "Should I prepare myself for the sight of half-naked Mystik Spiral band members wandering the darkened corridors in a drunken stupor?"

Trent chuckled.

"Nah. There's no room in this world of manufactured pop and pseudo-rock for the Spiral."

"You're not mainstream enough?"

"Something like that."

And like that, Daria's brain short-circuited when she saw Trent's _place to hang._

Trent's apartment was in a converted warehouse and plenty cool in an industrial kind of way. It was sprawling and open plan, but still somewhat bland like something straight out of an IKEA catalogue. Jane confided in Daria that her brother had bought the apartment for a song before Lawndale became all artsy and property values skyrocketed. Daria recognised Jane's hand in decorations and the hand-painted murals on the walls.

Trent's guitars stood around the apartment, yet seemed strangely untouched and dust-covered.

"I'm starting to get a zombie apocalypse vibe." Daria said. "When exactly did the scientists perform the lobotomy and install the brain implants?"

"Be nice, Daria. You can always go and stay with _Helen_."

"Fine. I'll cease and desist for now, but I _will_ find out where you put the real Trent and destroy the clone before the sickness takes hold."

"Hey, we've all got to have a hobby."

And that was that.

Jane had the guest room at one end of the apartment, and Trent was at the other. Daria had elected to take the couch, which was hardly as self-sacrificing as it sounded considering that it was dark leather and long and wide and beckoned to all passersby. It was comforting, in a way. Trent may have been more affluent than he had been years ago, but he was still a lazy bum.

Still, the 'no visible means of support' thing was slightly worrying. Did he rob a bank and not tell anyone? No, Trent wasn't the sort for secrets. Maybe he was a hitman. As teenagers Daria and Jane had a huge conversation about the possibilities of beheading someone with a guitar string, and-

_Get a grip, Morgendorffer._

That night, the apartment was quiet and cast in shadow, and Daria's curiosity finally got the better of her as she padded barefoot through the Lane abode. The kitchen was shiny and new, and was probably never used as evidenced by the pizza boxes and Chinese takeout containers all over the counters.

A door beyond beckoned. She eased the door open and had to bite off an obscene exclamation.

The room Daria had found herself in was lined with an impressive amount of computer equipment.

_Maybe the Mob's cybercrime division?_

Daria's inner Quinn demanded she snoop to her heart's content, but her inner Helen advised caution in case she was caught. Closing the door, she crept back to the couch.

Without thinking what she was doing, Daria opened her laptop. Sitting cross-legged on the couch, she flexed her fingers and stared at the blank word document.

She couldn't remember the last time she had done this, and Daria couldn't think of why. Why had she stopped? Why had she just let her most beloved gift fade into the background? When had her inspiration dried up? She used to write professionally, so she had just stopped writing for herself. It felt too much like work.

_What if I can't write anymore?_

She sucked in a breath, looked at Trent's closed bedroom door.

And she began to write.

_'_ _After all these years, it wasn't hard for Melody Powers to spot when she was being tailed. It could have been a coincidence when she was shopping, but when Melody took her old asthmatic dog jogging and they hurried to catch up, there was no other possible explanations. In their suits and dark glasses they couldn't have stood out more._

_Amateurs._

_Her front door was open. Maximus growled softly beside her._

_A young man in a blue suit was standing in the middle of her kitchen, holding the pearl-handled pistol Eduard had given her the week before he was killed._

_"_ _Ms Powers." He turned to her. "Codename Melody. My name is Frost."_

_"_ _That's your real name?"_

_His smile was as cold as his call sign. "I work for Devereux."_

_Melody's lips thinned at the mention of her former captain's name. "Not my business."_

_Maximus inched toward Frost, waiting for the word to attack. The young agent looked completely at ease, and Melody knew that if he worked for Devereux, Frost was fully armed as well as being an expert in multiple hand to hand disciplines. To simply bulrush him would be suicide._

_He had all the training she had._

_"_ _He was terminated. Because of Operation Chimera."_

_"_ _No one's left alive from Chimera."_

_"_ _Devereux was." Frost said flatly. "And so are you."_

_A barrage of bullets punched through the walls, and an instant later Frost reacted, tackling Melody to the floor as they were showered with shards of glass._

_"_ _They're early." The young agent grunted. He grabbed Melody's hand and hauled her to her feet, more strength in his wiry frame than she expected. "Time to get to work."_

_Melody whistled for Maximus._

_Well, retirement was getting old anyway.'_

When Daria stopped writing in the early hours of the morning, Melody Powers, pulled out of her cosy suburban life, had racked up a body count of nine.

The muse was back.

* * *

Trent and Jane were in a last minute meeting with the realtor, something Daria still had trouble believing herself. The notion of Trent and paperwork was something that just simply did not compute in her worldview.

Now she was technically unemployed, she could have hung around the apartment all day in her pyjamas eating last night's pizza, or finally run the gauntlet and brave the parents.

The walk from the newer part of town out to the older suburbs was longer than Daria remembered. Many of the old landmarks from her teenage years were assimilated into new developments or gone entirely, and now the house owned by Helen and Jake was nestled between two looming McMansions.

It was ten o'clock on a Saturday morning, so there was no reason why they shouldn't be home, but for whatever reason Daria hovered in the driveway, dithering like an idiot.

_Grow some balls, Morgendorffer._

Steeling herself, Daria marched up the driveway and knocked on the door.

_Why are you knocking on your own door, you dork?_

There was a muffled shout from within, and something tumbled to the ground.

"Damn idiot coffee machine!"

"Jake, be careful! We don't need it to explode like the last one!"

The door opened, and Helen was standing there, phone pressed to her ear.

She looked her daughter up and down, and Daria guessed she wasn't impressed by her orange sweater and dark slacks.

"Oh, it's you."

"Always nice to see you as well, Mother." Daria deadpanned. "I thought you were retiring."

"Scaling back, not retiring." Helen said shortly. "What? No, Jasmine, it's just my daughter. No, the other one. Yes, the one from TV."

Her mom ushered her into the house. Jake Morgendorffer looked up from his weekend edition from the paper.

"Hey, kiddo!" His enthusiasm was unbridled, like a puppy. A giant, manic-depressive puppy who didn't realise he was wrecking up the furniture and piddling on the floor.

"Hi, Dad."

"Want some coffee? I think I'm finally getting the hang of that dang devil machine your sister sent up for last Christmas."

Daria went hunting for a cup. " _Quinn_ sent you a coffee machine?"

"Said the tinned stuff gives her hives." Jake grimaced.

"Poor delicate flower, however does she survive this harsh life of instant coffee and powdered milk?" She pulled out her familiar chair at the table. "She starts making a little bit of money and suddenly it's silk sheets and gourmet food all the way." Quinn was now the manager of a formalwear boutique she had started with her college roommate. She and her husband still lived in Lawndale, in one of the new developments. "Who's Jasmine?"

Her dad's nose wrinkled slightly. "Jasmine Schrecter, Eric's niece. Took over his spot at the firm."

"Before or after Eric was dragged off in one of those white jackets with the stylishly long sleeves?"

Jake chuckled to himself. "Saw your dramatic exit."

Daria grimaced.

"You mom's not taking it well."

Well, she knew _that_. "And... how are _you_ taking it?" It surprised Daria that she actually cared about her father's answer.

Her dad very deliberately folded the paper and folded his hands on top. "I can't say it wasn't expected."

"Thanks." She said dryly.

Jake frowned. "That's not what I mean, Daria."

Her expression softened. "Yeah, I know."

He grinned at her. "Really, kid? Honestly, I'm surprised you hadn't thrown anything at your writers before now. The dog show one really got me. 'Everyone's a _wiener'_."

"And what you don't know is that I almost slit the writer's throat for that." She smiled wryly. "Me, too."

So that was that.

"So, how have you been?"

"Hangin' in there. You know?" Jake shrugged. "You staying with the Lanes?"

"Yeah. I need to get my head back into the game, and I didn't think it would do either of us any good to impose myself on Mother's lack-of-goodwill." Daria cocked her head to the side. "How did you know I was staying with the Lanes?"

"You _are_ actually my daughter." Jake said. "But I see that Trent around sometimes, we talk. Really turned his life around, after..." He trailed off. "Well, when you're about to turn 40 and it just hits you that your life has gone nowhere, you tend to re-evaluate things."

"You're not thinking about another career change, are you?"

"Kiddo, I've already had two heart attacks."

Daria smiled at her father, and that was when her mother strode into the kitchen, phone tucked away for now. Helen stood there for a moment beside the counter, face tight and hands on her hips.

_Oh, here it comes._

Jake stood, tucking his paper underneath his arm. "Well, I better get a move on and finish cleaning the..."

"Attic?" Daria offered.

"Right! The attic."

The corner of Daria's mouth lifted in a smile. "Coward."

Jake flashed a grin, before scooting out of the kitchen with all the subtlety of a moose on an airplane.

Helen just looked at her.

"You have some explaining to do, young lady."

Daria sighed. "I'm not 14, Mom."

"No, you're turning _34_! How do you expect to find another job at your age in this economy? And don't think for a moment that you're going to move back in here with us."

"But I already changed my postal address." Daria's eyes narrowed. "I have standards, Mother. I wouldn't torture either one of us like that."

Slowly Helen sank down into her chair.

"Daria, you know I only say these things because I love you and want you to succeed."

"I know, Mom." She sighed. "I just couldn't swallow my standards anymore under the pretence that I was somehow doing good by reporting on manufactured stories masquerading as news."

"I know."

"What? Then why -"

"Daria, every parent worth their salt wants their child to be looked after."

"Mom, it's not like I blew 15 years' worth of savings on corndogs and bubblegum."

"I suppose I deluded myself into thinking that after everything you were finally happy."

"I _was_ happy. Well, reasonably content. Until I started saying things that the fair-feathered friends of the poultry union had egg on their faces."

At that, her mother smiled. "It still surprises me that you never maimed anyone after that one."

"So people keep telling me. I have no idea why."

"Of course, dear."


	2. Chapter 2

There were more people on the Lane lawn than Daria had ever seen before. Most seemed to be bearded, flannel-wearing hipsters, even the women. The auctioneer and realtor agents stood out as being the only ones professionally dressed.

Daria stood at the back of the crowd, feeling strangely detached. Over the years she had probably spent easily as much time at the Lanes as she did at her parents' house. And now someone else was going to be in that house, probably to tear down their teenage refuge to turn it into one of those horrendously obscene McMansions only fit for the habitation of reality TV socialites and washed up pop starlets. She spotted Jane and Trent conversing quietly. Neither of them spotted her, but neither were exactly looking.

The auctioneer finally started proceedings, and Daria watched with mounting shock as the price for the two storey clapboard house climbed to ridiculous levels. Neither Lane looked particularly phased, but then, growing up in a household as altruistic as theirs, neither had developed a proper capitalist's appreciation for money.

"Sold, to the gentleman in the top hat!"

_Okay, then._

Daria pushed through the crowds. Behind her thick-rimmed glasses and old green trench coat, no one she brushed past recognised the primped and coiffed roving reporter.

Jane finally spotted her approaching.

"Hey, Amiga!"

"I think the guy from the Monopoly box just bought your house." Daria said.

"As long as he doesn't try to pay us with play money, I'm fine with that." She shrugged. "You see your parents?"

"Dad's remarkably fine with everything. Maybe he's got a big bag of weed hidden away somewhere."

"Gotta keep the blood pressure down somehow."

"Mom made me feel bad and apologise."

"Darn mothers. Do you think the guilt-tripping is a natural talent?"

"Knowing my mother, it was a gift nurtured lovingly over time."

"Hey, Daria." Trent ambled over to them both.

"Hi, Trent."

Jane shook her head. "Oh my god, will you pair just shut the hell up already? Yak, yak, yak, all the damn time."

Trent grinned at his sister before glancing back at Daria. "Have you managed to find some inspiration yet?"

Daria just blinked stupidly at Trent.

"What?"

The corner of his mouth lifted in a grin. "I was an artist for a long time. I can recognise creative block. Did you manage to get your chakras unblocked and get the channels flowing?"

Daria felt her cheeks warm slightly. "Maybe. A bit."

"Do tell." Jane rubbed her hands together.

Daria's eyes narrowed. "You know, doing that makes you look like a 1920s silent movie villain."

Jane twiddled an imaginary pencil moustache and grinned. "C'mon, Daria. Sharing is caring."

"If you bust out another O'Neill-ism, I'll strangle you with my bootlace." Daria said. "Fine. I was thinking... maybe I'll go back to my writing."

"Isn't that what you were doing before you were promoted to the desk?"

"Not... behind the scenes. Like I used to do. Stories. Books."

"Neat." Jane said. "I'm sure they'll be lining up around the block to publish you now you're a household name."

"No! I don't want to get published because of a name, I want to get published because I'm _good_."

"Hey, you're already a sell-out, why not capitalise?"

Daria shot her a dark look.

"I know a guy." Trent said. "He might be able to help."

Jane just looked at her brother. "You have no idea exactly how nervous I get whenever you say you 'know a guy'."

"This is not like that thing in Mirage, Janey. Curtis used to work for Puffin. Or was it Penguin? Whatever, it had a bird somewhere. Represents first time authors trying to break into the market and all that."

Daria looked at Trent. "Exactly _what_ part of the mafia do you work for?"

He didn't miss a beat. "Event manager."

Daria's lips quirked in a small smile. "Well, I suppose mobsters need parties too."

"His office isn't far from here. He's there most of the time while his kid's at school."

All of a sudden her high-school insecurities about her writing seemed to come back as one. The prospect of cold-canvassing an agent? Terrifying.

"Uh, okay. I guess that'll be... fine?"

"Well, you crazy kids better get going. I'll stay here and wait for the realtor to get his act together." Jane said.

"Janey, you sure? I could-"

"Trent, you're crap at paperwork. That's why you hired Josie, remember?'

"Yeah, but I'm still mostly a gentleman, Jane."

"Keep telling yourself that, bucko. I'm gonna help myself to the free coffee and see if there are any of those cake ball things left."

* * *

Weaving around hipsters and trendies in his big black car was no mean feat, but Trent made it look easy, one hand on the wheel and the other trailing out the window, the wind ruffling his dark hair. Daria wondered whether he still kept a notebook in the side panel in case he was struck by inspiration as he drove.

She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. His hair was now shot through with grey and longer, curling slightly behind his ears, he was strangely clean-shaven and-

"No rings?"

"Got to maintain the illusion of competency."

"I hope you don't mind me asking, Trent, but what exactly do you... _do_?"

Trent smiled. "Aren't fantasies of me being a hitman enough for you?"

"What?"

"You really aren't as hard to read as you think, Daria."

"I'm not sure whether that's disturbing or not considering all the homicidal tendencies I've had over the years."

Trent chuckled. "A while back I got an internship at Z93."

Daria blinked. "The radio station?"

"Uh huh. Apparently I had an ear for music. I did a bit of DJ-ing as a teenager, so it was no big."

"Somehow I can't imagine you working for those hacks."

"Yeah, it took a while to get into the swing of things. But it got easier when the big bosses thought it would be better to have a _musician_ in charge of the music."

Daria's eyes grew wide. "You're the producer of Z93?"

"In the radio biz it's called the 'station manager'." He smiled at her warranted shock. " _King_ of the hacks."

"God." Daria shook her head. "I'm sorry, I just-" _Thought you'd amount to a junkie, or at least a deadbeat dad._ "When did this happen?"

He shrugged. "Had a moment when I realised that I wasn't in my twenties anymore, and I probably _was_ going to reach middle-age, despite myself." Trent's mouth twisted into a wry grin. "Gonna be 40 next year. God, when the hell did that happen?"

Daria empathised. "I get it. I think I understand what my parents must be feeling."

"At least you're on the right side of 35."

Daria looked down at her hands on her lap. She had forgotten how easy it was to talk to him. "I guess I'm just having an early midlife crisis."

"You never did things by the book."

She chuckled. "So, what happened to the band?"

"We're here." Trent turned the car into a gravel carpark, cutting off the conversation. Beyond was a small office building, _Stilano Independent Publishing_ in the window. The two walked into a cheerful but generic reception room. The much-younger, perky girl behind the counter looked up, saw Trent, and beamed.

"Hey, Tess. Curtis in?"

"Hi, Trent. He just got back from lunch. I'll see if he's available."

And she got up and strutted away, an extra swish in her steps, extra twirl in her hips. Daria frowned, but Trent was digging for something in his pocket, and was oblivious.

" _Someone's_ a popular boy." She commented.

He grunted. "I'm a single man in a stable and well-paying job. There's always vultures circling."

Maybe he _was_ more socially aware than he appeared to be. Daria raised an eyebrow. "Cry me a river."

A smart, well-dressed man came out of the office at the back.

He looked at Trent.

"Oh, it's _you_."

Daria didn't know whether that was good or not.

"Hey, Curtis." Trent said. "This is Daria Morgendorffer. She'd like to talk to you about maybe moving into publishing."

She coloured.

"Trent!"

"What? You are."

"You know I don't like prospective authors showing up without going through the official submissions process, Lane." The man said bluntly to Trent.

"Don't worry, she's cool."

"Mm." Curtis's eyes switched to Daria. "Morgendorffer? The NNYK anchor?"

Daria frowned. "How do you know that?"

"My older daughter goes to Lawndale High. They make a big production about their alumni. Well-" He amended himself. "The ones that succeed and aren't found face down in a puddle of their own vomit in a hotel room with two hookers."

"Gee, I don't think I want to see the percentages on that one." She blinked. _I wonder who_ that _was..._

"Well, let's see what we can do for you, Ms Morgendorffer." Curtis said. "Let me give you some information on things, and you can get back to me and give me your pitch when you're ready, hm?"

"Um, sure."

* * *

That night Jane suggested pizza for dinner, and Daria was perfectly happy to go along with her up until the moment the two of them sidled into a cracked leather booth at their old pizza place and she realised that everyone, including the staff and manager, were teenagers.

"Well, this is uncomfortable."

"I always wondered why I never saw any grownups in here." Daria said.

"Let's just get a couple of pies to go. Trent's going to be on soon anyway. He's got the six to midnight slot."

"I thought he was the manager."

"Z93 isn't really a big production. They've got a handful of engineers and a couple of DJs. Everyone multitasks." Jane gestures for one of the teen waiters. "Besides, he appeals to both old ladies and stoners at the same time."

"He's really grasped that target demographic."

"You should talk, Ms Girl Reporter. Most of your fan mail is from lonely old intellectuals or perverts with a librarian dominatrix fetish."

"At least I'm not getting granny panties in the post."

Jane grinned, arching a brow. "You know, I missed this."

"Missed... what?"

"Well, you, me, pizza, deconstructing the world as we know it."

"We met for coffee last week."

"That doesn't count when you've just quit your job and are in freefall." Jane said. "Come on, Daria, before last week we hadn't really talked in a year, despite both living in New York."

Daria looked down at the scarred surface of the tabletop, knowing that Jane was right. Before now they had just been... drifting apart, and Daria inwardly berated herself for just accepting the fact that statistically you didn't stay in touch with your school friends.

God. When had she become such a pushover?

Jane pushed the pizza boxes at her. "Come on, kid. At least wait until we're in the car before you have another epiphany."

"Screw you, Lane."

"Maybe later, sweetie."

And that was how, for the first time in her life, Daria ended up sitting cross-legged on the floor across from her old girlfriend, their greasy offerings divvied up between them as Trent's massive sound system boomed, tuned to Z93.

"Ultra Cola?"

"I can't believe they still make that crap. Especially after all those lawsuits."

 _"_ _...and that's enough from me on your ride home from work."_ The energetic kid on the radio trilled. _"Enjoy the rest of your night. Coming up after the break is the big boss himself, Mystik."_ The station's theme faded out and an advertisement for a hairdresser took its place, and Daria looked at Jane.

"Mystik with a 'K', I presume?"

"Hey, if it ain't broke, don't fix it." Jane said. "It's a bit of a theme. There's Mystik, Hex, and Scorpius."

"Are those DJs or extras in a Harry Potter movie?"

"It's so hard to tell these days, isn't it?"

After an interminable period of inane advertisements, the station's theme came back on the air. Daria surprised herself by actually looking forward to listening to Z93 for the first time in her life.

There was no real introduction to his shift, no warning at all until Trent came over the radio. _"And now, it's Mystik, taking you through to the witching hour."_ Daria had to admit that his husky smoker's voice was suited to the role.

"Damn."

"What?" Jane's cheeks were stuffed with pizza, making her look like a chipmunk. She licked strings of melted cheese from her fingers. "Bad slice?"

"No, it's nothing."

Her old friend looked doubtful.

Trent rambled on a bit about upcoming concerts and local events before spinning some classics. Coming back, he spoke about events the station had covered and were going to attend, and directed fans to their Facebook page. Then a chirpy old grandma called in for a chat, and he treated her with the single-minded focus that he awarded everyone. Daria understood his appeal. Trent had a gift to make you feel like you were the only person in the room.

"He's good at this."

"Penny and Summer gave him crap when the station made him a full-time DJ. Guess they didn't like the idea of being the new low achievers in the family."

"Yeah, your sisters seem to have a bit of a complex about money and success."

"I'd still rather those two and their misplaced superiority than Wind turning up at three in the morning begging for marriage advice."

"That happens a lot? Still?"

"To Trent, yeah. All he can really do is sit Wind on the couch and funnel beer down his throat until he passes out. Oh, the perks of living hundreds of miles away."

Daria looked up through her lashes. "Trent's not married?"

"Of course _that's_ what you take away from that." Jane arched an eyebrow, teasing. "Why, _Daria_. Are you getting designs on my brother again?"

"That was over fifteen years ago." Daria rolled her eyes. "Come on, don't be ridiculous."

Jane grinned. "Hey, don't worry, kid. There's no Mrs Lane or little Lanes. At least, not from that brother anyway. Well, that any of us know of."

For a moment she actually looked a little despondent, and Daria reminded herself that Jane was for all intents and purposes, from a broken home. The Lanes spread out far and wide, and all seemed to hate each other. Even Daria herself was on better terms with Quinn and her sister's family.

"Sorry."

"It's not your fault that my family is as twisted as a M. Night Shyamalan movie."

Daria smiled. Here she was, unemployed, directionless, all her fair-weather friends having deserted her, now sitting cross-legged on the floor of her high school crush's apartment, across from her oldest and dearest friend, and she couldn't have been happier.

"You okay?"

"Of course. Why?"

"You've just got this goofy look on your face."

"Would you believe I'm doing cartwheels on the inside?"

"You're so full of crap."

Daria smiled, enjoying the company while she leaned back and listened to Trent's smoky voice over the radio.


	3. Chapter 3

_Happy birthday to me, happy birthday to me._

Daria was tapping away at her laptop when Jane came through to the kitchen. She took a slice of cheese from the refrigerator and munched it thoughtfully, looking over to Daria.

Finally Daria could take it no longer.

"What?"

"What, what?"

"What's with the look?"

"What's with what look?" Jane attempted to look innocent, which just made her look as guilty as all hell. "This is my normal face more or less."

Daria folded her arms. "Okay."

"Let's go out."

"No."

"Now, c'mon! Put on your party dress and your dancing shoes. I'm taking my girl out somewhere special."

"Want to get out early before there's a line at the drivethru?"

"Christ, Daria, you're only 34 once. The least you can do is join me for a takeaway burger."

"Wow. Don't make me feel too special."

And that was how Daria ended up being bundled into the car as Jane took off down the street.

"I see your driving has not improved since you clipped that bus full of nuns."

"That was only _one_ time, Morgendorffer."

Daria looked down at her dark jeans and old faithful scuffed combat boots. "So, ah, where's Trent?"

"He's working tonight. When his block is over, he'll go home and sleep for days." Jane said. "I'm surprised your parents didn't drag you out tonight."

"So am I." Daria would never say anything, but she was actually a little hurt. "Mom says they've got plans."

Jane looked as surprised as Daria had felt at the time. "Wow."

"Yeah."

"Hey, a greasy burger and a case of indigestion will take your mind off everything."

"Be still my beating heart."

It took Daria a whole ten minutes to realise that Jane wasn't driving toward the fast food joints. The penny didn't drop until the car pulled up in front of the brick-fronted converted warehouse.

There was a sign on the door of the Zon that said _Closed for private function_.

"Oh, you _didn't_." Daria sat up further in her seat. "You set me up!"

"No. Yes. Maybe. Losing your job was entirely coincidental."

She scowled ferociously. "I'm staying here."

"Suit yourself." Jane shrugged and left the car.

Daria persisted with her silent protest for several long and awkward moments before she sighed in defeat and reluctantly left the car.

She looked up at the industrial facade of the building. Light was spilling out onto the pavement, and she could hear music and laughter from within. She pulled in a deep breath.

_We are now entering Hell._

Daria pushed through the double doors and into the Zon.

There was a moment as everyone went quiet, then Jake Morgendorffer stood up from the back.

"Happy birthday, kiddo!" He cried.

And despite herself Daria smiled.

Jane clapped a hand on her shoulder. "Knew you couldn't hold out for long, Amiga." Hooking her elbow around Daria's arm, she pulled her friend into the club.

Daria stared around herself in amazement. A gigantic banner hung over the stage proclaiming _Happy Birthday Daria!,_ and there was a young DJ at the booth spinning tunes. Her boot caught the edge of a floorboard, and she would have faceplanted if not for Jane's elbow locked around hers.

"I'm in an episode of _This Is Your Life_." She marvelled. "I'm having flashbacks. So many people over the years. So many people over the years that I've wanted to kill."

Her college friends were there, and a couple of her closest colleagues, but the more people Daria saw, the more she was convinced that Jane had simply gone through the high school yearbook and randomly called people they hadn't seen for years.

And a ridiculous amount had turned up, probably hoping that there would be an open bar. Jodie the architect, Mack the doctor, Andrea the plus-size model, Upchuck the... the... okay, no one really knew what Upchuck was, only that he was dressed like a mob boss and was flanked by an expressionless Amazonian woman with a sharp blonde bob that looked like she could have easily bench-pressed a cow.

"Happy birthday, Daria."

Oh, look, Brittany the actress. Daria would have said porn star if not for the fact that she had been channel-surfing after work one night and watched the bouncy blonde get gruesomely slaughtered in _Night of the Crawling Corpses II: Blood Kill._ Since then, she'd graduated from the dumb blonde killed before the opening credits, to the dumb blonde killed halfway through the movie, to the dumb blonde that decapitated zombies in an explosion of gore, for some reason in black lacy underwear.

Daria and her last boyfriend used her movies for drinking games. _Arterial spray, take a shot!_

"Hi, Brittany. Thanks."

Brittany smiled and wound a strand of hair around her finger. It took Daria a long time to realise that a lot of Brittany's blonde act was that, an act. You played stupid and looked pretty, and the whole world wrote you off as a waste of skin while you got on with the real business behind the scenes.

In Brittany's other hand she was holding out a long, thin, neatly-wrapped pink package with a garish orange bow. "I thought you might like it." She said. "It's from the set of my last movie."

Daria took the package with the air of a bomb disposal technician handling explosives. "Erm, thanks." Cautiously pulling the bow open and sliding off the lid, her jaw almost hit the floor.

"Holy Moses, Batman." Jane said.

Inside the box in crumpled pink tissue paper was a sacrificial blade.

"It's a prop from _Satan's Bride._ The blade collapses into the handle." Brittany demonstrated, pushing the knife into her hand. "Our director has just been picked up to do the next James _Bond_ , but because _Satan's Bride_ was his first movie, it'll be worth heaps in a few years. I thought you might like it."

Daria was just staring. "Brittany, this is..."

"Really _cool_." Jane finished. She took the blade, stabbing it at a waiter as he went past, the blade retracting into the handle as the teenager stared at her with wide eyes. " _I want one_."

"Back off, mine." Daria took the knife back. "Thanks, Brittany. You didn't have to-"

"I wanted to." The blonde cut in with a smile. "After everything you did for me at high school."

Daria's eyebrows rose. "Remind me again, what did I do for you in high school?"

Brittany stopped her hair-twisting, and Daria could see that spark of intelligence in her eyes. "You showed me that I didn't have to be what everybody expected of me. You showed us all that it didn't matter."

And Daria felt oddly touched.

With a smile and a wave, Brittany Taylor vanished into the crowd, leaving Daria standing there like an idiot.

"If Kevin comes by and thanks me for showing him how to be a strong feminist, I'm done."

Jane laughed and was about to say something else when another voice interrupted.

"Daria!"

Daria grimaced. _Hell._

"Later, Amiga." Jane dropped her arm like it was on fire.

"Hey-"

"I'm not paid enough to deal with family stuff." She shot her an apologetic grin. "Once more into the breach, dear friends." Jane saluted, and disappeared.

Daria sighed and turned to face her sister. "Hi, Quinn."

She supposed she loved her little sister. She really did. Only it reminded her of Christmas. It was best only seeing them once a year, but you could be damned sure that halfway through the day, people were bound to start screaming at each other and storm off in a huff.

Her partner in huff was the tall and dapper Simon Bassingwaithe. Smooth-operator, confident, well-educated at an all boys' school, Daria was pretty sure he was gay when Quinn first introduced him. At their wedding, Quinn had announced that she was hyphenating their names, and Daria was genuinely curious as to how _Morgendorffer-Bassingwaithe_ could possibly fit on a credit card.

It was the society wedding of the year, the fashionista and the star of a major soap opera. It was also the first time Daria had been asked for a quote on leaving a wedding.

When Quinn had announced she was pregnant, it was like Daria's brain had suffered the Blue Screen of Death. _Does not compute._ Both Quinn and Simon were entirely too selfish and self-absorbed to have a _pot_ - _plant_ , let alone a child, and she could see disaster looming on the horizon.

Quinn gave Daria cursory air-kisses on both cheeks, holding her at arm's-length like she didn't want to be contaminated. Daria immediately felt the old homicidal impulses rising. "I thought we weren't going to see you until the end of the year." _Technically_ , Quinn and Simon lived in Lawndale, but their respective jobs had them there only part of the year. She guessed it was probably some kind of tax dodge.

"Yes, but when we found out about this little get-together for your birthday, we just had to come." Quinn spoke with the royal _we_ even when Simon was nowhere to be seen. "And besides, Simon is going to be on set at the end of the year and I've been commissioned to do the costumes on a regency drama, so we won't have time at the end of the year, and coming down now all worked out _sooo_ well. Isn't that great?" She clapped her hands together like the excited fifteen year old she used to be.

_Oh, sooo great._

"Is Alexis here?"

"Hm?"

Daria's eyes narrowed. "You know, your _daughter_."

"She got herself a Coke." Quinn said. "Over there, somewhere. I think she went into the courtyard."

_Award this one Mother of the Year._

Outside there was a fenced-in patio, and Alexis was sitting at a table, her face serious as she was talking to the lanky man opposite her, the full moon picking out every bit of grey in his hair. For a moment Daria's internal alarms went off, an eight-year-old talking to a grown man, but when she looked closer, she recognised Trent. Daria crept a little closer, and realised they were talking about music.

She sat on the stool the other side of Alexis, and the conversation stopped. "Don't stop because of me."

"Aunt Daria." Alexis smiled. "Happy birthday."

Daria reached out to ruffle her short red hair. "Thanks, kiddo." She looked across the table to Trent. "I'm not interrupting?"

"Nah." Trent smiled. "Lex just wanted to know what sort of acoustic would be best to sucker her old man into buying."

Daria frowned. "Guitar?"

Lex stared at her, with a _you've got to be kidding me_ expression that Daria remembered using so often when she was her age that it had practically been seared into her face.

"I don't mind the Taylor 612ce 12-fret." Trent said. "Still sounds like a maple guitar, but more refined. But you can still never really pass the Gibson Hummingbird. James Taylor, Jimmy Page, and John Lennon all used Gibsons."

Daria frowned at him. "Just so you know, all I'm hearing is white noise. It's like the _wah wah wah_ sound of the parents talking in Charlie Brown."

"Philistine." But his eyes sparkled as he said it.

Daria looked back at her niece. "So you're getting into music, huh?"

"Yup." Lex popped the _p_ , looking determinedly into her Coke. "I'm gonna be an unemployed musician. Maybe that will give my parents something else to fight about besides Dad's work schedule and Mom's boyfriends."

Daria felt her eyebrows climb into her hairline.

"Quinn's cheating?"

Trent shot her a look that said _I can't believe that actually surprises you._

Lex snorted. "Please, Aunt Daria. You worked in TV. You had to know that this was only ever a showbiz marriage." With how old and jaded this eight-year-old sounded, it made Daria want to go in and bang Quinn's head against the wall a few times. "Dad wants her to cool it, but the scandal drives up both their profiles, so a divorce is out of the question, coz it would mean that their names aren't in TMZ every week."

Daria closed her eyes, and rubbed her forehead. As much as she had improved over the years, her sister was still living a high school drama. And poor Lex was stuck in the middle.

"You call me, if you need anything. You call me."

"Sure, Aunt Daria." Lex just smiled. "I'm going to say hello to Poppy. Thanks for the advice, Trent."

Trent tipped his beer to her. "Drop me a text when you decide."

Lex waved, and both Daria and Trent watched the girl closely to make sure she did go back into the Zon and sit next to Jake.

"I'm worried."

Daria looked at him, surprised. In all the time she had known him, Trent had never voluntarily offered what he was really thinking. Inconsequential crap, yes. Serious stuff, no.

"Your sister and her guy are so... wrapped up in each other that they don't see the kid anymore." There was a flick of his fingers, and Daria could see the musician in him composing the song in his head. _Invisible girl, lost to the world, nobody sees, nobody sees..._

"How do you know Alexis?"

"O'Neill nagged a bunch of local businessmen to be mentors for some of the elementary kids. Your niece ended up following me around the station for a week, taking notes for her presentation." He said. "And your dad brings her around sometimes so they can spend some quality time with my TV."

That sounded like Jake.

The two sat there awkwardly for a moment, not sure what to talk about after all this time.

_Weirdness reaching critical levels-_

"Well, I might just..."

Taking his drink, Trent got up to leave, and Daria reached out, taking his hand and stopping him.

"Hey, c'mon, let's talk for a bit."

His eyes narrowed like he was waiting for the punchline.

"Um, sure."


	4. Chapter 4

She touched his hand. Trent always had the ideal musician's hands, long-fingered and quick and clever, but for the first time she noticed something else. Her thumb found a long pitted line, and looking down, Daria realised with a jolt that it was a scar, a jagged scar along the back of his hand.

There were similar scars on the hand gripping his beer. Trent's ring finger on that hand was also twisted off to one side slightly.

"What happened to your _hands_?"

Trent smiled nonchalantly like it was no big deal, but still pulled his hand from hers.

"A permanent reminder of bein' young and stupid."

Trent would have been perfectly happy to leave it at that, but there must have been something in Daria's expression that said she wasn't going to drop it because he groaned and scrubbed a hand back through his greying hair.

"Gonna bring the mood down." He warned.

"Have you met me?" Daria's eyebrows rose. "Trent, that's my reason for _being_."

He grinned a little at that and sipped his beer.

"Well, you know not long after you guys left for Boston, I decided to cut my losses and head off, yeah?"

"The Mirage thing." Daria said.

"Yeah. We had a line on a couple of jobs, high-profile gigs. We even had a guy from Black Frog Recordings sniffing around."

"Really." Daria tried not to sound dubious, she really did.

Trent heard her scepticism, but instead of getting insulted, he just smirked. "Yeah, got me too. First time he cornered me at a gig, looking all Establishment, I told him we weren't looking at buying any bibles."

His eyes twinkled at her. Daria's lips twitched into a smile.

"A suit was looking at buying?"

_Good job at not sounding like a cynical bitch, Morgendorffer._

"Um, well, I suppose Mystik Spiral always had an interesting sound. Kinda-"

"Crap?" At Daria's goggle-eyed look, Trent chuckled. "I'm under no illusions, Daria. Thing is, a good riff can make up for a lot. Slow down a good eighty percent of the junk called music these days, and the lyrics don't actually make a lick of sense. _She's as sweet as pie but if you break her heart/She'll turn cold as a freezer._ Please."

"I never pegged you as a Katy Perry man." She smirked over the rim of her glass. "Either that or you're still bitter that Juicy J ripped off _Icebox Woman_."

He smiled at that.

"Wow, you've become a crotchety old bastard." Daria lent back in her chair. "I'm on to you, Lane. You don't want to tell the story." She took a sip of her own drink and frowned. "Has the Mirage thing got something to do with Jane bunking out before finals last year of college?"

Daria had thought at the time that it was a pressure thing. Maybe not.

Trent looked down into his glass like the secrets of the Loch Ness monster, where they buried Jimmy Hoffa, and the location of Atlantis were all at the bottom. "Told her not to do that, that it could mess with her grades, but you know Janey."

"I know Janey." Daria said. "Stop changing the subject, young man, and carry on with your tale of obfuscation."

He cocked an eyebrow.

"Got into a car wreck."

She stared at him. Trent stated it in an offhand way that a normal person would use to say _I brushed my teeth this morning_ or _I'm wearing long pants today._

"Oh my God." Daria looked at his hands again, her way-too-vivid mind conjuring up broken glass and shattered bone.

"Yeah, the Plymouth was never going to make it." Trent said sagely. "Kids ran a red light, thought they could make it. Knocked the steering column back into my chest, did a number on my hands."

"Good _God_." Daria was appalled. "Did you sue?"

At that Trent looked genuinely confused. "Why?" His brows furrowed. "It was just some clueless kids. Insurance covered the hospital. Wouldna helped to destroy their lives too."

"You, Trent Lane, are a bigger man than I." Daria said. "Your karma points must be accumulating impressively."

"If I had enough karma points, I would have been quicker on the brakes."

Her eyes narrowed. "What exactly do you mean _wouldna helped to destroy their lives too_?"

For the first time the too-cool-for-school facade slipped.

"I can't play anymore." He sucked in a breath. "Cramps up, first." He flexed his fingers, as if illustrating. "Then, starts – hurting, y'know?"

He shrugged it off like it was no big deal.

Daria knew at once what a crushing blow that must have been. _Still_ was. She reached back over the table for his hand, gripping hard.

"I'm so sorry."

"It's cool. It was all a long time ago now. I can still write, and I'm getting royalty cheques now and then from Jesse, who still plays my music, but-"

"It doesn't make things any more easier." Daria said. "Why didn't Jane ever say anything?" _Would I have ever known if I hadn't asked?_

Trent shrugged a shoulder. "You know us, Daria. A certain amount of denial goes into being a Lane."

Daria snorted. "I'll believe that."

"Janey needed a certain amount of... stability to function." Trent's face was thoughtful, an expression that Daria honestly never expected to see on him. "And stability for Jane is, sort of, _me_ , I guess. So to get through that last year of BFAC she had to pretend that I'd be back making crap music and hanging around her friends like a creeper in no time. Normalcy of the incompetent." Trent's face folded into a lyrical _hey!_ expression Daria recognised, then it was gone. "By the time I realised you didn't know, the past was past, so what was the point, yeah? Just depress you for no good reason."

Daria frowned, thinking. Trent was Jane's rock, but who was Trent's? Where did _he_ get the stability he needed? "You still could have called to talk. Recovering artist to recovering artist and all that crap."

" _Recovering artist_ implies that it's an infliction that needs to be got over." Trent's brows rose. "But c'mon, Daria."

"C'mon what?"

"We were friendly by proxy, but we weren't really _friends_. I was just Janey's big brother who was always hanging around like a weirdo. This is the longest we've probably ever talked without a middle man."

Daria opened her mouth to refute him, but stopped to think. _Hell, he's right._ She liked Trent, and he was fun to talk to in his more lucid moments, but in her mind's eye Daria only ever really saw him as her friend's hot and slightly clueless older brother.

"You got me." Daria smiled wryly. "But hey, we're supposed to be grownups now. Try over?"

He peered at her suspiciously and Daria offered a hand.

"Daria Morgendorffer, current unemployed slacker."

He smirked. "Trent Lane, professional non-starter."

"That's a little harsh."

"Daria, I'm almost forty and a _DJ_."

"You could always be forty and a bartender. A _part_ - _time_ bartender."

"Heh."

The two of them sat there in a companionable silence for a moment. Daria glanced back into the Zon. Maybe she should get her ass back in there since it was supposedly her birthday party and all, but in reality she had probably been forgotten about the instant the bar opened.

"I used to have such a crush on you."

_Christ. Where the hell did_ that _come from?_

"I know."

Daria blinked.

"What?"

"It was kinda cute." Trent smirked. "And I mighta played on it a bit."

"You don't say."

"I might have thought you were pretty awesome, too."

" _Bull_."

Trent swirled the dregs of his beer around his glass. "Yeah. You were cool and easy to talk to and got me like no one else. But five years, y'know?"

Daria sat there with a death-grip on her drink. No, he must have been kidding her, but Trent didn't have the guile to be a kidder.

"Five years isn't that much of a difference." She managed to get out.

"Maybe not _now_ , but when I'd just turned 22 and you were sixteen? I felt like a crusty old pervert hiding in the bushes. _Get into my van, little girl, and I'll give you a lolly._ "

"C'mon, you were never _that_ bad." He coughed a laugh. "Though, we _are_ both in our thirties now."

When he spoke, Trent sounded genuinely perplexed.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Daria frowned before breaking into a wry smile. "You know, I don't actually know."

"Hey, kiddo, there you are!" Her dad exploded out of the Zon like he had been launched. "You're missing one heck of a party! Trent, my man, how long have you been nursing that brew? C'mon, Mom wants to cut the birthday cake!"

She let out a breath she didn't know she had been holding.

_Disaster averted._

Jake shepherded them both back into the Zon, where Helen promptly ushered Daria away to the cake, giving Trent a suspicious look which the man just shrugged off. Daria guessed that people had been giving him suspicious looks his whole life and probably would be until he was dead.

Instead of just two single number candles, the vindictive witch had thirty four single candles burning on each fondant-covered layer of the three-tiered chocolate confection.

Daria glanced up at the lone fire alarm.

"When do you think the club did their last fire drill?"

Jane shrugged. "Probably decades before we were even born."

Helen wisely chose to hand the knife to Jake first. Completely oblivious, he passed it to Daria.

"Cut the cake, kiddo!"

Hiding behind an obligatory grumpy facade, Daria was feeling pretty good. She was surrounded by exuberant friends and family, and _wasn't_ feeling the burning desire to set someone on fire.

Daria was actually having fun.

_Eurgh_.

She should have known by now that this was about the time when things decided to hit the proverbial. And by her experience, whatever hit the fan was not going to be evenly distributed.

* * *

It started small enough, with Quinn's husband Simon Bassingwaithe sweeping in late to the party, all ridiculous cheekbones and artfully tousled hair in square-jawed, Ken-doll proportions.

"Daddy!"

To his credit, the first thing he did was to zero in on Lex's location so he could give his daughter a hug. Alexis's face lit up like a candle as he bundled her up in his arms.

Lex tucked under his arm, he went over to her to say hello.

"Happy birthday, Daria." He air-kissed her on both cheeks, and Daria suppressed a natural reaction to knee him in the nads.

"Hey, Si. You're looking extra plastic today."

"Daria." Helen said sternly.

Simon just grinned, dimple appearing in his cheek. They'd had this conversation before. "Yeah, I was just recast at the Mattel warehouse the other day."

"That explains your immovable legs and strange lack of junk."

"Maybe they can manufacture a filter between your brain and your mouth."

"As long as I get the Malibu Dream House and the convertible, I'm happy."

It was a strange form of greeting between the two that had carried forth times before. While not friends exactly, Daria had to admit that her brother-in-law had grown on her. Like mould. Or boils. Or a flesh-eating fungal disease. Simon may have been an irresponsible man-child, which Daria once found reprehensible, but she found herself more and more tolerant of the soap star's oddities considering he genuinely loved his kid and was actively _trying_ to be a better parent.

"How are you, Simon? You're looking well." Helen stepped forward for a kiss and a hug, and showing better acting skills than he ever used on screen, Simon looked genuinely pleased that he was there as his mother-in-law squeezed the ever-loving stuffing out of him. Hands stuffed in her trouser pockets, Daria watched the stilted exchange with amusement.

"How's _Strange Times in Vampiris Bay_?"

"That's actually something I wanted to talk to you about." That Tom Cruise _I-swear-I'm-really-a-nice-guy-after-all_ smile faded, taking on a serious expression that made him look vaguely constipated.

"Er, why?"

"Can I talk to you in private?"

Daria indicated around herself, the darkened club. "You could light a fire in the middle of the floor and start barbequing small animals and I can guarantee that no one would notice."

"Go find Jake." Simon sent off Lex. She pulled a face, but wandered off.

Daria followed Simon to a dark booth.

"Just so you know, my mom warned me about going into dark corners with strange men."

"That's funny, that's exactly what _my_ mom said."

The two of the faced each other across the scarred table, and Daria hoped that this wasn't going to be quite as revealing as her last chat with a man over drinks barely an hour ago.

"I'm leaving the show."

_Well, so much for that._

"What? But you love _Vampiris Bay_."

" _Quinn_ loves _Vampiris Bay_." Simon said sharply. "She likes the cocktail parties and rubbing shoulders with C-listers that buy stupid crap at her costume shop."

"I thought it was a boutique."

"Whatever. I want to branch out, to be taken seriously as an actor. I've done a few pieces on stage, and a friend of mine is starting his own indie film company, and has asked me to hop on as director. It's going to be a pay cut, but there's plenty in my savings to take care of Quinn and Alexis and sort out college."

"And what do you want me to _do_ , exactly?"

"I want you to write me a script for our first feature."

Daria blinked stupidly.

"I can't _write_."

"Of course you can write." Simon scoffed. "I've read your editorials for the paper."

"I mean I can't write _scripts_!"

"It's not any different from what you were doing when you were writing for that awful late night show." He said patiently. "We just need a vehicle for the company, something action and upbeat and clever and with a message and-"

_Holy crap!_

"And with super heroes. And time travel. And a touching love story." Daria said scathingly. "Are you _insane_?"

He grinned at her, with a sparkle in his eyes and dimples in his cheeks: a face that had launched a thousand dirigibles.

"Come on, Daria. It'll be _fun_."

Daria could have strangled him for that line alone.


	5. Chapter 5

The second load of faeces to hit the propeller followed in quick succession.

"I'm going to kill your sister."

"That's something I've been waiting my whole life for you to say." Daria's eyes narrowed. "Why, exactly?"

Helen was sitting on a bar stool, a glass of wine in her hand, her face pinched and practically vibrating in her anger. Daria had been tempted to do an about-turn and pretend that she never saw her mother, but Helen had glanced up that very moment, catching Daria in her laser vision and reeling her in with her tractor beam.

"She's gone and announced that Alexis will be living with us until next year while she's off somewhere making period gowns! I mean, she doesn't even actually _make_ any of the dresses herself! She's just the _foreman_!"

Helen chugged the glass of red like she was a pledge in a frat house. Daria looked around to try and spot a member of her family, knowing that when Helen was feeling resentful and there was wine involved, disaster was not that far behind.

"You love Lex."

"Of course I love Lex!" Helen sounded affronted. "But she is _Quinn's_ _daughter_! I know I deprived you girls of certain maternal closeness while you were growing up, but at least I was still in the _state_ if you needed me. But Quinn-" Her shoulders slumped, and her mother turned to her, looking defeated.

"Did I screw you up?"

Daria blinked at her mom's blunt question and abrupt subject change. "What?"

"Did I mess you up?" Helen lent forward. Her breath smelled strongly of alcohol, which wasn't a good sign. "Did my neglect screw up your notion of motherhood? Did my forced involvement in your life when it suited me cause you to become emotionally stunted?"

"Mom, I was always emotionally stunted." Daria said. "And the only opinion I have on the notion of motherhood is that it's not for me."

Helen screwed up her nose slightly at that, but didn't contradict her. Since Daria had been twenty or so, she had been hearing a steady chorus of _you'll want kids one day, you just need to meet the right man_ , and it was only in the last few years that her steadfast denials had actually started making an impact. "Simon takes Lex to work whenever he can, but Quinn just drops her on me and your father like we have nothing better to do."

Daria bit back the sarcastic comment that technically Jake _had_ nothing better to do since he retired, besides going to the hospital for a steady stream of DIY-related injuries.

"It's my own fault, and I know it. This is exactly what I get for not enforcing rules with you girls when you were younger." Her mom looked off into the middle distance, and Daria waved to get the attention of the barman, pointing at Helen's wineglass and mouthing _How many_? "Simon does his best, but he's an absent parent as well, and he's-"

"That might not actually be a problem much longer." Daria said.

Helen frowned in confusion.

That was when God lobbed Deuce Numero Tres into the room.

"What do you _mean_ you didn't resign the contract?"

Quinn and Simon stood opposite each other near the bar, muscles tight and faces pinched like two enemy combatants ready to face off on the field of honour.

"Damn."

Daria pushed through the crowd, her mom behind her, and scanned the bar for empty bottles that may be potentially used to glass someone. She spotted Lex, who was thankfully plugged into her iPod and hadn't noticed that her parents were about to go pistols at ten paces. She saw Jane, who was watching the family drama with the gleeful air of someone at the racetrack watching a car wreck, and saw Trent, who carefully moved into Lex's line of sight just in case the girl looked up and saw her parents go for each other's jugular.

She shot him a grateful look, and he gave a nod in return.

"What on earth is going on?" Helen demanded.

"Ask him!" Quinn stabbed a manicured finger at her husband.

But she didn't give either of them a chance to 'ask him' as she immediately went on the attack.

"He's gone and quit his job!"

"I didn't quit." Simon sounded defensive. "I just haven't resigned the contract."

"What about me?" Quinn demanded. "What about Alexis? Did you think of either of us before deciding to play at being director?"

"I'm doing this _for_ Lex! I'm not Johnny Depp or George Clooney, I'm a _soap star_ , Quinn! All I need is one writer deciding that I'm looking too old, and that's it for me."

"Unless you're on the cast of the _Bold & the Beautiful_." Jane said. "And then you just get facelifts until you look like a baby's scrotum."

Daria glared at her.

"I need to achieve some sort of longevity to look after our daughter, which means taking a risk, an endeavour."

"A financial risk, I suppose?" Quinn said scathingly. "God, you're inconsiderate."

_Crap._

Simon's face immediately hardened. "It's _my_ money! _I'm_ working, while _you're_ pissing money down the drain playing living dolls!"

"Hey, now, no need for fighting words." Jake said uneasily, seeing that no one else was going to be rushing into the fray anytime soon. In fact, Jane looked like she sincerely wanted a lawn chair and a bucket of popcorn.

Jake stepped cautiously forward, knowing that he was an unarmed civilian in a gunfight, and liable to get shot. "Big breaths, fella." Daria understood her dad appealing to Simon first. Out of both drama whores, he was the one most likely to be reasoned with. "And Quinn, honey, your man doesn't just rush into these things. I'm sure he's got it all planned out! Like he said, he hasn't _quit_."

He offered a weak smile, desperation in his eyes.

"Fine." Quinn said stonily.

"So, kiddo, there's still that safety net there in case this – whatever – doesn't work out."

"Fine." Quinn's eyes were still on her husband. "And, pray tell, who exactly is going to write this, new _endeavour?"_

Crap.

_Don't say my name. Don't say my name, don't say my name-_

"Daria." Simon shot her a sheepish smile. "Daria's writing my movie."

_Dammit._

Quinn stared at her, outrage and betrayal in her eyes.

"I'm not coming home tonight." She said flatly to Simon. "I need to compress."

" _De_ compress." Daria said.

"Whatever." Her sister hissed.

Helen and Jake exchanged a look. Neither of them particularly wanted a ringside seat to their daughter's potential divorce, but –

"You're always welcome at home, sweetie." Helen said.

Quinn nodded like all the exertions were too much for the poor dear. Daria rolled her eyes.

Her mom's arm hooked around her elbow like a steel band. "And tonight _you_ are, too." There was an unspoken _or else_ in Helen's eyes.

Daria huffed.

_Happy birthday to me, happy birthday to me._

* * *

Daria sat in the backseat of her dad's Lexus, Quinn beside her. With her mom simmering away quietly, her dad making inane remarks to try and pick up the mood, and her sister staring determinedly forward with her arms crossed in a huff, it was like Daria had been transported back fifteen years.

Kill me now.

Her phone pinged.

Jane.

_im in ur presentz takin ur shitz_

Oh. Right. Birthday. Party. Presents. She remembered seeing a table just inside the door, but had dismissed it at the time as irrelevant.

_Anything good?_

_24 carat crap_

_Throw it in the back of Trent's car._

_okie dokie. u just skipped out b4 bin duty_

_Swap you family drama for bin duty. And stop using lolspeak. You're a grown-ass woman._

_ur a harsh mistress_

She tucked her cell back into her pocket, thinking about her niece. Lex was going home to their McMansion with her father, not a particular change for her. Daria wondered who would get her in the divorce. Heh. Knowing Lex, she'd sleep on the radio station's floor until Trent agreed to take her in.

"Well, tonight was eventful."

Helen's sharp look clearly said _don't start._

Jake wordlessly pulled into the driveway, and Daria glanced up at her parents. _Aren't we going to talk about this?_ Helen stepped out of the door. _Okay, apparently not._

Daria reached out for her sister's seatbelt, yanking Quinn back down into her seat.

"God, Daria, what the _hell_ -?"

Quinn reared back, balled her fist and hit Daria in the arm.

It wasn't much of a punch, more of a love tap really, but so unexpected and ridiculous that before she could prevent it, Daria actually _smiled_ at her sister. "What are they _teaching_ you at Pilates these days?"

"Screw you, Daria."

"Yeah, no." Daria faced Quinn squarely. "We need to talk."

"We don't."

"Fine. Then I'll talk and you listen. You are _thirty_ - _two years_ _old_ and acting like you're sixteen all over again. You have a husband who loves you and your daughter, and wants to provide for both of you long-term, and you throw it all back in his _face_ because he's going to do it in a way that you don't personally approve of. And so, dear sister, I simply have to say, _what the hell_?"

Quinn stared at her with a defiant expression. "I don't need to explain myself to you."

"No, but you can practise on me what you're going to say to Simon and Lex." Daria said sternly. She indicated around herself. "You can't just _run away_ when things get a little too uncomfortable."

"Come on, Daria. That's all you _do_." Quinn's eyes flashed dangerously. "You planned to run away from Highland as soon as you could. Our whole teenagehood was about you gearing up to run away from Lawndale. Then as soon as you left Raft you ran away to New York. You ran away from our parents so many times that they stopped waiting for you to come back, and you run away from anyone that might actually like you, maybe even love you."

Okay, that one actually stung a little.

"Then it just proves that we really are sisters, despite protestations to the contrary, since we are on compatible levels of 'screwed'." Daria said. "But I don't have a _kid_ to drag down into my mess."

Quinn stared down at her knees. Beyond the car, Daria could see their father approaching the windows to see if they were all right, and she waved him off.

"Did you ever love Simon?"

For a moment Quinn actually looked affronted. "Of course I did – do – _do_." She seized two handfuls of hair and yanked, frustrated. "I do. I _do_."

Daria just watched as her sister's two distinct personalities, the sixteen year old bitch and the thirty year old mom, fought it out. Finally Quinn slumped down in her seat. "My husband hates me. My daughter is like a stranger. What do I do, Daria?"

Daria also sat back. "This is some good ole fashioned armchair psychobabble, but statistically we're likely to repeat the same patterns in our personal life that our parents had. And you've inherited one hell of a can of snakes. It's part of the reason I never got married. I'm statistically going to get involved with someone with questionable sanity and have a daughter exactly like you."

Quinn smiled wryly at that. "And instead I married mom and had a daughter exactly like _you_."

"Uh huh."

The two sat there silently for a moment.

"You husband is frustrated because he feels like he's being taken for granted. Lex is bitter because she feels neglected. And it's not helping when you _make it all about you._ "

Quinn closed her eyes. "I don't know what to do."

" _Fix it._ "

Daria understood why Helen wanted her to come home that night, it was a form of solidarity to Quinn to assure her that the whole family was behind her. Their mom and dad made a lot of reassuring noises, while Daria occasionally interjected a bitch-slap of logic.

Dammit, the girl was still living in a world filled with yes men, what Quinn really needed was for Helen and Jake to give her a good swift kick up the ass and tell her to get on with it.

Though it was apparently obvious that _that_ was Daria's role.

As ever, there was only so long she could suffer in the company of sycophants before feeling the burning need to put someone's head through a wall, so after mandatory family TV time, which consisted of a stream of football and car crashes and police shootings (they'd taken Sick, Sad World off the air after all those badgers fell through that propeller) she took herself off to her room for some quality wall-staring time.

The moment Daria landed a permanent gig and got a place in New York, Helen had taken the opportunity to pounce, doing up Daria's bedroom the way she had always wanted. The walls were now a soft powder blue, the carpet a creamy colour that showed up every scuff mark. It looked like any generic guest room, but then, Daria supposed, that's really what it was these days.

At least she had saved the asylum padding – they now lined her own den in Hell's Kitchen.

She sat on the flowery duvet, letting out her breath in a sigh. She was a successful investigative journalist, late night talk show staff writer, and renowned news anchor, but right now, sitting on this bed, in this room, her back in the same house with her parents and sister and seeing the same people, it was like she was suddenly a clueless sixteen year old again.

_God help me._

From an inside pocket of her overcoat, Daria withdrew a pocket notepad. The first several pages were filled with Melody Powers notes. She flipped the page and clicked her pen.

_Things to do:_  
* Get the hell out of Lawndale and get some direction back in my life  
* Save Quinn's marriage  
* Write bestselling movie – save Simon's career via proxy  
* Get a job so I don't end up on my parents couch or panhandling – in this scenario, panhandling is the preferred option  
*Get a pet

All in all, her _To Do_ list was essentially _Don't Die_ with a few extra details thrown in.

Flipping back to her Melody Powers notes, she perused her cramped shorthand. Melody and Frost and Maximus were roadtripping it across Europe to a hail of gunfire and explosions as they delved into the mystery surrounding Melody's old boss and –

Daria's pen stilled.

"What the hell am I doing?"

Melody Powers the super secret-agent who kept up with the boys and intimidated the girls, who killed commies in a single bound, flirted, seduced, unapologetic and brave, fast-talking and idealised, everything a 16 year-old-girl wanted to see in an action hero.

_And yet disconnected._

Daria hadn't been that girl for a long time.

She had served her time well, but perhaps it was time Melody Powers really _did_ retire.

After all, a new chapter in her life deserved a new superhero.

Didn't it?


	6. Chapter 6

The next morning Jake dropped her off in front of the massive, industrial-looking brick building. Daria stared at the nameplates beside the door, before pressing the button for _Lane._

Nothing seemed to happen, and Daria pressed the button again. And again.

_"_ _Okay, I'm here. What?"_

Trent's voice was sleep-blunted and crackly over the intercom.

"It's me." Daria wondered if perhaps she should have identified herself by name when a buzzer sounded and the front door unlocked, letting her into the warehouse apartments.

When they converted the warehouse, the designers had kept the old gated freight elevator, which Daria rode up with the young family that lived a floor below. The mother peered at her curiously as Daria pressed the button for Trent's floor, and she coloured slightly under the scrutiny.

Surely Trent had invited girls back to his apartment. Surely.

She stepped out onto the landing, lit by a massive bay window at either end of the hall. A wilted potted plant stood by a scratched blue door. Daria reached out to knock, and then decided to try the handle first.

The door gave, and she stepped into the apartment. The door to Jane's guestroom was still closed (of course, it was only seven in the morning on a Saturday, after all, she shouldn't expect miracles) but Trent's was open, and Daria couldn't help but peek into the inner sanctum. The walls were a stormy grey, jeans and shirts in a haphazard pile next to the hamper. A wall-mounted flat-screen TV was opposite a king size bed covered with a dark red comforter and black sheets still twisted from someone only recently vacating.

Steam from the en suite hung in the air, and Daria froze as she realised that it was very possible that Trent was wandering around the apartment naked. And really, why shouldn't he? It was his damn home after all, she chided herself. _Stop being a baby._ Just because he might walk out at any time completely nude and dripping wet-

_Gah! What are you doing to yourself?_

"Daria?"

"Eep!" She raised a fist to her heart. "I mean, yes?"

That was when she noticed that the massive bay window overlooking the alleyway was open, and a small tendril of cigarette smoke curled around the side of the window. Daria cautiously walked over and stuck her head out the window.

Trent was sitting flat on his butt on the iron fire escape, back against the red brick wall and elbows on his knees. He took a drag off his smoke before giving her a quick smile.

Accepting his wordless invitation, Daria clambered out the window and sat beside him on the fire escape.

He blew out a thin stream of white smoke. Daria knew that Trent had immediately clocked that she was wearing last night's clothes, but was either too classy to mention it or knew that he really had no place to pass judgement.

The sounds of the downstairs neighbours drifted up the fire escape, laughter and music and conversation. A fresh morning breeze lifted their hair and Daria could smell soap, and the light aftershave Trent was wearing.

"Family okay?"

She arched an eyebrow. "As okay as my train-wreck of a family ever is. You're up early, aren't you?"

"Or up late." Seeing Daria's wrinkled nose, Trent stubbed out his cigarette. "One or the other."

Daria's lips twitched in a small smile. "Something like that."

"Daria?"

"Hm?"

"I've been thinking."

"Always a dangerous occupation."

He snorted and turned to her, and for the first time Daria noticed smile lines and anxiety creases around the corners of his eyes. It was then that it really hit her that while to some extent Daria had remained the same insecure girl, Trent wasn't the same guy from fifteen years ago.

"About your writing."

Trent's voice yanked her out of her epiphany.

"Hex has been looking at a fun way to change up the daily end of transmission, so I was thinking of maybe doing of some, like, War of the Worlds thing."

"What, cause a national panic that has idiots maiming each other in the rush to get to their shotguns and isolated mountain cabins? I appreciate chaos as much as the next guy, but I'd really like to live long enough to see what this world will look like after the Four Horsemen ride through guns a'blazin'."

Trent coughed a laugh. "As much as I appreciate your enthusiasm, I was actually thinking along the lines of a radio play."

"Your mind truly doesn't operate the same way as the rest of us earthlings."

"It's not my fault that you lesser beings are yet to reach my level of enlightenment."

"Hey, lend me your bong and a box of Fruit Loops and I'll reach your level of enlightenment in no time."

"Lightweight." His smirk held the hint of a dare in it. "So, d'you think you can write a novel in ten minutes a day?"

"What?"

"It'd be cool, Daria. We can make a bit of a production of it, perform it out. And you can see how much of a audience there is for your stories."

Daria stared hard at the building opposite. Instead of the anticipated panic, a warm feeling of promise and fluttery anticipation built in her chest. _Yes. A novel in ten minutes a day._ "Yeah. Yeah, I think I can do that." Daria met his gaze and found that she was smiling. "Challenge accepted." She shook his hand to seal the deal.

_No going back now._

"You sure? I'll hold you to it and I'd hate to send Janey after you if you flake on me." He warned.

Daria's eyebrows rose. "Really, _you're_ telling _me_ I've got to keep to a deadline." _Irony, much?_

"Well, it's just that I fully get it if you think it's too much for you an' all." There was a definite dare in Trent's voice, and the five year old in Daria felt like kicking him in the back of the knee, blowing a raspberry and running away.

"It's too much for-? Are you kidding?" She raised an eyebrow, an answering challenge in her voice. "Strap yourself in, Lane. You've unleashed the Kraken."

_Oh my God, am I actually_ flirting _?_

"Bring it on, Morgendorffer." There was an edge to Trent's smile that was decidedly wicked. "Do your worst."

_And is_ he _actually flirting_ back?

_Danger, Will Robinson._

Their faces were only a few inches apart, staring into each other's eyes. Daria could kiss him if she wanted to, just lean forward a little and _(it really didn't say much for Daria's decreased standards that making out with someone on a rusty fire escape didn't even crack her list of Top 5 Weirdest Places I've Jumped Someone)_ –

Abort mission _,_ abort _._

Trent's calloused fingertips touched to the back of her hand softly, gauging whether he'd be shaken off, and Daria shifted her palm over and slipped her fingers though his.

"Hey, Daria?"

"Yes, Trent?"

He was about to say more when there was a loud bang and a litany of swearing from inside the apartment. The dragon had awoken.

"I hear voices but I don't see people." Jane called. "Wondering whether I've finally gone insaner."

Mortified, Daria dropped Trent's hand like it had burned her. How long had Jane been standing there? How much of their conversation was overheard? She schooled her expression, desperately trying to force down the colour in her cheeks. She could feel the slight itching of a stress-induced rash under her collar. _Oh, you've got to be kidding me._

"Insaner is not a word." Daria said with a dry voice.

"You don't get to tell me how to inventigate words." Jane stuck her head out the window. "Hidey ho, neighbours. It's a little breezy out here, isn't it?"

"That's because all the hot air is inside." Trent said.

"Nice, sellout."

With a grunt, Trent got to his feet, dusting off his jeans. Daria watched him, but he didn't meet her eyes. "I'm off. You need the car?"

"I suppose we can slum it." Jane frowned. "I didn't think you were working until tonight."

"We've got a new kid starting." He shrugged. "Want to make sure he doesn't, like, get the station yanked off the air or something."

"Got to keep that Netflix money rolling in somehow." Jane said. "Good luck appeasing your government overlords, brother mine."

With a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, Trent stepped back inside the apartment, ruffling his sister's hair as he went.

The front door closed with a snap.

Arms folded, Jane sank down onto the window sill, watching Daria with narrowed eyes. Daria fiddled with her glasses, easing a finger between her neck and the collar of her shirt.

"Well, _kismet_." Jane shot her a wry grin. "I was wondering what happened to your very special feelings for Trent."

Daria coloured. "No, we were just talking."

"Uh huh."

"Really. About work. Trent was thinking about giving me a radio spot." Though, really, with the way that Trent's expression had shuttered when she had dropped his hand made her wonder-

"And that work conversation required making eyes at each other?"

"Jane, please-"

All amusement faded from Jane's face, taking on a serious expression. "Daria, just- Don't hurt my brother, okay? He's the good one."

It was when Jane had disappeared and Daria finally managed a change of clothes, that she realised that she might have already had.

* * *

The day passed quietly, considering. Daria's producer had sent her a terse email informing her that she had a little over a week of paid leave left, and then the network required written confirmation if she intended to stay on. Passive aggressive much.

Two of the newspapers she had sent resumes off to emailed, one politely declining considering the current furore surrounding her, and the other was just a form letter informing her that all their editorial positions were currently filled. Daria couldn't quite manage to summon up any form of righteous anger at the rejection; being a beat reporter didn't have the same appeal it once did. She had done her time writing puff pieces, now it was time to soar majestically like an eagle, or whatever the hell you were supposed to aspire to. Mind you, weasels didn't tend to get sucked into jet engines.

There _was_ one job offer in her account when she logged in. A daily morning show believed that she would be a perfect fit for their all-female panel as the unapologetic, opinionated one.

Yeah, fuck no.

Jake had managed to dragoon Daria into coming to his and Helen's weekly dance class. Sad as it was, falling flat on her face during the foxtrot with a ninety-eight year old geriatric was the most action she had seen in months.

"You did great, kiddo! You should have seen my coordination when I first started! I don't know if you ever noticed my lack of, _whatchucallit_ , dexterity."

The look Daria and Helen exchanged said _yeah, we noticed._

"I feel sorry for Alexis." Helen said regretfully, stirring her drink. The three of them were currently sitting in front of a little family bakery that had sprung up off the street. Daria couldn't quite see the health benefits in going for an hour long exercise and dance class, and then going off for milkshakes and cream buns, but there you go. "And I'm worried about Quinn."

"Mother, I've always been worried about Quinn."

"This salted caramel cream donut is delicious!"

"You can't fix anyone else's marriage, Mom."

"And poor Alexis, having to watch her parents air their dirty laundry in front of everyone."

"Yeah, that's always fun."

Helen at least had the decency to look abashed.

"Look, Mom, I know you feel somehow responsible for this, but ultimately it's Quinn and Simon's fault for acting like a couple of teens in the _OC_." Daria said. "We can try to talk sense into the two of them until we're blue in the face, but the only thing we can really do is be there for Lex if she needs us."

Her mother still looked disgruntled, and Daria understood. Her mom wasn't much for the 'stand back and see what happens' approach, and the impulse to bang their heads together until they saw sense was a hard one to quench.

"You're right, honey. It's just so..."

"Just so." Daria glanced at her dad, who was carefully hiding from the conversation behind his cake, but his frown said he was listening to everything they said. Jake may have been a scatterbrained and disconnected father, but he would do anything for his granddaughter, and Daria found the thought strangely comforting that he was firmly in Lex's corner.

Finally he emerged from his contemplation and was his mostly cheerful and happily oblivious self once more. Daria wished she could just switch it on like that. She kind of wondered where he went when he was lost in his head. It probably looked like Andy Warhol had exploded in there. Marilyn Monroe and cans of beans everywhere.

"You know, I feel like another coffee. Honey, kiddo?"

Helen ignored him. "Oh, by the way, have you decided what you're going to do about your job?"

Daria abruptly got to her feet. "My treat this time, Dad."

_I'm not running away, I'm not._

Daria wove her way back through the tables. It never once occurred to her that Dega Street could one day look like this. Of course there were still record stores and music shops and tattoo parlours, but the streets were clean, the shopfronts were gleaming, and even the dens of ill repute had greeters on the front door. Gentrification got everywhere sooner or later.

She ordered a short black for herself and her mom, and her dad's sugary diabetic-shock-in-a-cup, took a step backwards and turned back toward their table-

-and smacked into the man patiently waiting for his own coffee.

For a moment Daria braced herself for the New Yorker's _'where's your fucking guide dog, four eyes?'_ reaction when the man instead reached out and steadied her, hands on her upper arms.

"Whoa, sorry. I guess I'm off in my own world," he said apologetically, a friendly smile on his face.

"It's my fault, I'm naturally maladroit." Daria said. "Needless to say, I'm not looking forward to my chances in the coming zombie apocalypse."

The man's smile grew wider, albeit a little dubious, looking snookered that he had been drawn into a conversation with a crazy person. "My chances won't exactly be any better. The most cardio I do is the walk from the office to my car." His eyes narrowed a little. "Your technique needs work."

"My tech-" It hit her like a lightning bolt. "Check your privilege, pal. Not every woman with the misfortune to get sucked into your gravitational pull wants to get into your pants."

He frowned at her, a frown not of anger, but of puzzlement.

"Daria?"

"...yes?"

"Wait, you don't recognise me at all, do you? That's a nice rub to the self-esteem, knowing that I managed to make that little impact."

Daria looked him over again, in a smart suit, hair smoothed back from his forehead neatly, tie loosened and askew. He was good-looking, in a Gordon Gekko investment banker _I'll-touch-you-and-leave-a-slime-trail_ kind of way. "It must be exhausting to have to constantly push that ego around in front of you like a hobo with a supermarket trolley."

"Everyone has their cross to bear." He said. "When did you figure it out?"

"About halfway through you going on about how great you are." Daria said. "Hi, Tom."


	7. Chapter 7

She was in hell. It was like some demonic version of _This Is Your Life_. Only that morning, Daria had been genuinely considering kissing Trent Lane, and now, because God liked throwing a wrench into the works, her first boyfriend was standing in front of her in a fancy-schmancy suit that reeked of hundred dollar bills and his shoes so shiny they could have guided planes out of the air. Even his frigging _tie_ looked like it was silk. The two men couldn't have been more different.

_Look at me_ , his getup screamed, _I'm richer than you. I'm better than you. Look at what you missed out on._

"Doing the weekly gracing the peasants with your presence to remind them who's really in charge?"

"Well, you have to appease the villagers occasionally or they get all uppity and storm the castle gates." With a smile to the girl behind the counter, Tom gathered his takeaway coffee.

"And that's such a shame when you're getting a good groove going on in the lab with your Frankenstein monster."

Tom smiled. "It's been a while, Daria."

"Yeah. It has." Despite herself, Daria realised that she _had_ actually missed him, missed the casual banter and the comfortable reliability of their relationship, which she really hadn't managed to replicate since. She started back toward her parents' table. Tom followed, sipping his coffee, a hand casually in the pocket of his suit pants. There were eyes on them as they left the bakery, which made Daria wonder whether Tom had somehow become a Bruce Wayne-esque Lord of Lawndale since she had last seen him.

"You seeing your parents?"

"Among others."

His look was slightly bemused. "It's only halfway through the year. How does that work?"

"Come again?"

"Well, aren't you some big high-and-mighty newsreader in New York now, or something?"

"And that's what's written on my ID tag." Daria said. "You don't read the papers, do you?"

"The financial pages."

"And you don't have this new-fangled device known as TV, either?" Daria shook her head. "I kind of quit. Onscreen."

He looked genuinely confused. "Why? I thought being a reporter is what you wanted."

"It was." Daria said. "But somewhere along the line I misplaced my principles and became a shrill for the masses in exchange for a closet of Armani suits and a membership to the Country Club." She glanced at Tom out of the corner of her eye, the artfully tousled but expensive image he cultivated. _But you wouldn't know anything about that, would you?_

"You're nothing if not principled."

"That better be a complement." She said. "What about you?"

"What about me?"

"It's been fifteen years. For all I know, you're a serial killer. Or worse: married."

He smirked at that. "I'm not married. No one could handle this much awesome."

"Keep telling yourself that, champ. You look like you sold your soul to a demon at the crossroads."

"You wouldn't be far off. I'm an associate at Grace, Sloane & Page."

_How do you think old money gets old?_

Crap on a stick. Was Mom and Dad's table this far away before?

"I guess that's... good."

"Hey, that's one word for it." Tom took a hit from his coffee. "I left college with a major in political science and a minor in classic literature-"

"-and don't forget your brief foray into clown college-"

"-recommendations from practically every professor at Bromwell and I still ended up in the family business."

"You make it sound like you're Michael Corleone."

"I'm a hedge fund manager. It's like building a castle on wet sand and hoping it all doesn't fall over."

"Hello, Mister Ponzi."

Ah! There! Her parents were watching the two of them curiously, and as they approached the table Daria saw Helen's eyes widen as she recognised Tom.

"You know, we should really catch up properly while you're here. Get dinner or something."

"Don't get pizza. The damn place is full of kids these days." Daria said.

"I meant a _good_ dinner."

"Shame on you."

"I'll call you, Daria."

"You're very forward."

Tom grinned. "See you later." He pulled out Daria's chair before nodding politely to her parents. "Mrs Morgendorffer. Mr Morgendorffer."

And with that he sauntered off toward a dark green Jaguar.

Jake glowered, while Helen's eyes sparkled inquisitively. Her mom had always firmly been _Team Tom_ , which always royally pissed Daria off _._ Her dad's reaction was harder to read, which was odd.

Daria immediately fended off her mom's questions.

"Don't even."

* * *

Jane was Facetiming with her fiancé when Daria managed to get back to the apartment. Passing through to the kitchen, Daria spotted his massive blonde visage that was made even more massive by Jane's iPhone.

She had been entirely ambivalent toward Thor Erikson when he and Jane had first begun dating. The hulking Scandinavian seemed nice enough and looked a bit like Chris Hemsworth (which was always a plus), but with his tailored pants and pressed shirts made Daria wonder whether Jane was entering a phase and developing a weird daddy complex.

A few months later the twosome went on a holiday to New Zealand, where, at Thor's insistence, they eschewed the historical tours in favour of going Hobbit hunting and jumping off thousand-year-old rock formations. He may have looked like the God of Thunder masquerading as an elementary school teacher, but it turned out that he was actually Indiana Jones with a high-speed internet connection.

For the last six months, Thor had been out of the country as the head archaeologist on a dig in Germany. Something about embalmed corpses that had been sacrificed for good harvests to the god of whatever-the-hell. He was the only guy Daria knew who's Instagram was full of garrotted cadavers and impaled carcasses, who _hadn't_ been hauled off by the cops.

With Jane almost always on the move in the underground artsy world of New York, and Thor only in the state part of the year, the two passed like ships in the night. Though, when they _did_ hit the town together, you could well be assured that something was going to come up. Or blow up. The last time he was in town, Daria had received a call from Jane just before the eleven o'clock broadcast about wiring some bail money. Apparently it was something about Thor punching a police horse.

Hey, what could she say. Crazy attracted crazy.

"Hey, Amiga!" Jane grinned, eyes sparkling. Daria decided she didn't want to know what conversation she had just interrupted.

_"_ _Hello, Daria."_

"Hey, Thor." Daria raised her hand in a half-wave though there was probably no way he could have seen her from the phone's angle.

In a split-second Jane's attention turned from her back to her fiancé. "Catch you on the flip side, babe."

_"_ _Stay saucy, sexy."_

Puke. Puke, puke, puke. Daria mimed putting a noose around her neck and throwing the end of the rope over one of the apartment's exposed girders. The corner of Jane's mouth twitched in a grin as she disconnected the call.

"How was dance class?" She asked in a sing-song voice. "Did you meet any old sugar daddies offering to make you their special goodtime gal?"

"I hate you." Daria began to empty out the pockets of her green trench coat. Phone, wallet, keys, notebook, pens, tissues, taser... Jane watched with a bemused expression.

"What, no armoured car?"

"That would be in my _other_ coat." Daria sat down heavily. "You'll never believe who I saw."

"Stephen Fry? Kevin Bacon? Dennis Rodman? Give me a hint here."

"Why the hell would you want to meet Dennis-?" Daria shook her head. "No, Tom Sloane."

"Oh."

"He wants to get dinner." She said heavily.

Whatever high Thor had left her in seemed to fade as Jane turned to her, her brow scrunched in a frown. "Are you gonna go?"

Daria shrugged. "He says he's going to call."

"That's presumptuous."

"So I have time."

"To think of an excuse?"

As Daria hesitated, Jane's frown deepened.

"You're going to go out with Tom."

"I didn't say anything."

"But you're thinking about it."

"He was a good friend once, and the boyfriend thing was over a decade ago. Why the sudden attitude?" Daria's eyes narrowed, her spine stiffening.

Jane slumped in the chair, her breath whooshing out of her. "I dunno."

"Bullshit."

Her friend wouldn't meet her eyes, fiddling with her cell.

"Jane?" Daria persisted.

Jane sighed, and looked up.

"You're my absolute best friend in the world, Daria. You know that, right?"

Daria frowned. "Are you breaking up with me?"

"Doof." Jane threw a cushion at her. "The thing is, whatever this thing is with you and Trent..."

"I don't _know_ what this thing is with me and Trent." Daria stressed. "There might _not_ even be a _thing_."

_Yeah, right_ , said Jane's expression. Daria frowned.

"Will you just get to the point, already?"

"It's just that... my brother always looked after me, always provided for me and made sure I had extra cash as a kid even if he went hungry for it. The thing is, no matter how important you are to me, if things go pear-shaped and I have to choose between you and Trent, provided he doesn't do anything ragingly _stupid_ , it's going to be my brother." Her expression was grim and serious. "Every time."

Daria looked at her hands in her lap. "Duly noted."

Jane's shoulders slumped. "I've never felt like a bigger cow then I do right now."

"Hey, you're just telling me how it is."

"I feel awkward."

"I wouldn't have guessed."

"Here I am, let-live Jane Lane, and I'm laying down ultimatums."

"Hey." Daria shot her a sideways glance. "You're getting married. It's about time you got used to it."

Jane smiled.

* * *

No matter how many years it had been since graduation, walking past Lawndale High with Jane in the middle of the day always somehow felt like she was truanting. Part of Daria half expected Ms Li to come barrelling out the double doors and demanding to know why they weren't in class, ranting on about how they were besmirching the good name of _Laaawwhndale Hiiigh._ It was an automatic reflex, like seeing a school on TV and instinctively thinking _thank God I don't have to deal with that crap anymore._

Though, there was another part of her that was morbidly curious to know how a high school under Principal Anthony DeMartino was run.

Jane was also looking toward the high school as they walked. "You know, after all this time I still feel like a parolee that finally managed to make bail."

"I know exactly what you mean."

"Want to go to a movie?"

"What the hell. What's on?"

Jane shrugged. "Beats me. We'll close our eyes and pick one. It'll be like a cinematic version of Russian roulette."

And so that's how the two thirty-something women ended up in a dark movie theatre surrounded by a bunch of excitable kids and sweaty forty-year-old virgins in comic-book t-shirts, watching the latest blockbuster superhero nerdfest. While Jane was joining the boys in throwing popcorn at the one guy in a suit that looked like he had wandered into the room by accident, Daria sat with her head propped in her hand as the stupidly good-looking lead saved the world with nothing but a pair of tight pants and a good throwing arm.

And it hit her.

"That's it."

"What's what?"

Daria smiled to herself. A solution to one of her problems had presented itself. So elegant, so simple.

She could have slapped herself for not realising it sooner.

_Write bestselling movie – save Simon's career via proxy._

Check.

Sounds like a job for Melody Powers.

* * *

Her phone was ringing.

"Dammit."

And of course, she had to be caught literally with her pants down.

"Daria! Phone's ringing!" Jane called out.

"I know!" Daria scrubbed at her hair before wrapping it in a towel and climbing into a t-shirt and sweatpants, stepping out of the bathroom in a cloud of steam, leaving a trail of wet footprints across the wooden floors as she adjusted her glasses.

The call had dropped out by the time she got to her iPhone, and she blinked down at the screen in confusion at the list of missed calls and messages from her mom, dad, Quinn and Simon.

"What the hell?"

Jane peered up over the back of the couch, hair falling over her eyes like an English sheepdog. "Problem?"

"Don't know."

She unlocked her phone, scrolling through her contacts.

"I-"

The cell began vibrating in her hand, an unattractive picture of Quinn mid-sneeze appearing on the screen. Daria sighed.

"What do I owe the honour, sister dear?"

_"_ _Alexis is gone."_

Daria straightened. "What?"

_"_ _Alexis is gone! Is she with you? Say she's with you!"_

There was shouting in the background. She thought she could hear her mother in the background.

"Put Mom on."

_"_ _Daria, I need-!"_

_"_ _Put Mom on!"_

After a moment Helen came on over the line.

"What's going on?" Daria demanded.

_"_ _Lex went to her friend's house after school. At six she left Holly's house to walk home. The girls text one another to let each other know they get home."_ Helen said. _"Holly never got a text, so her mother called Quinn to make sure that Lex got there safely."_

Daria's mind was whirring, immediately putting the pieces together.

_"_ _She answered her phone long enough to tell your father she was fine, but now she's not taking any of our calls."_ Helen said heavily. _"I was hoping she was with you."_

Daria was lacing up her boots, her cell tucked between her ear and her shoulder. "Where are you?"

_"_ _At our house."_

"I'm coming. I'll be there in a few minutes. We'll find her."

Daria hung up. Jane was staring at her with wide eyes.

"What the hell's going on?"

Daria pursed her lips, face tight. Her niece had done the one thing that she had never quite been cruel enough to do to her parents.

"Lex has run away."


	8. Chapter 8

Trent was on-air, but Daria hoped desperately that if she called his cell enough times he would get the idea that something was wrong and _answer already._

"Trent, Lex has run away. _Please_ call me."

He was her niece's mentor. Surely he'd have some idea where she would go.

She was breathless by the time she and Jane got to her parents house. The driveway was full of cars, Simon and Quinn yelling at each other while Jake was desperately redialling his cell phone and Helen was standing in the centre of the driveway with a lost expression on her face now she had finally encountered a situation that she couldn't control.

"What the _hell_ happened?" Daria demanded.

"She's not answering." Jake said. "She answered me before, but not now."

She zeroed in on her father. Out of the entire family, Jake was the one that had the best idea of where Lex may have gone. "Dad!"

"She hasn't called her friend and she won't answer Holly, either." He said.

"This is _your_ fault." Quinn immediately flared at Simon.

"Me? _You_ were supposed to pick her up from Holly's!"

Before an actual fist-fight eventuated, a pair of bright headlights swept over all of them from the darkness and a long black car pulled up shortly by the curb. Trent stepped out of the car, all laid-back mannerisms cast to the side as he briskly strode up the driveway. He must have just walked out of the station as he was only wearing a t-shirt against the chill and his security pass was still hanging around his neck. Daria didn't want to reflect too closely on the relief that washed through her at the sight of him.

"Have you called the cops yet?" Trent asked, looking at Daria as though he expected her to have been the one to retain some iota of logic.

Jake frowned at him. "She's just run away."

"But the more people looking for her, the better." He countered. His voice was as smoky as ever, but there was an undercurrent of _don't mess with me,_ like Boss Mode had been engaged.

_If he had been like this years ago, Mystik Spiral would have been unstoppable._

"Right."

"Helen can do it." Trent said. "Someone needs to stay in the house in case Lex comes back here. The same with your place," he spared a glance for Quinn and Simon.

Quinn nodded like a bobbing dog in the back of a car. "I'll go."

"I'll drive her." Jane said. "Make sure she gets there in one piece, doesn't wreck into a tree."

"Hey, I'm not-" Quinn protested, but both Lanes ignored her.

Trent nodded. "Jake, take Simon and circle the neighbourhood, parks and things, places she hangs."

"Got it."

"I'll do a lap around downtown, stores, arcades, and stuff. We'll get her." With a crook of his finger, he indicated for Daria to follow him.

She sunk into the passenger's seat, forcing down panic. Trent waited for Jake's Lexus to leave and Jane to back out in Quinn's sporty monstrosity before pulling away from the curb, his profile sharp and stoic. Daria forced her beating heart to calm. They would find her. They _would._

"You and Jane seem unusually calm."

"We've got more practise then we'd like with this shit. As soon as Summer's kids could, they started running away." Trent said. "When Courtney was four, she was almost picked up by some guy in a van. Jess and I managed to grab her before he booked."

"Oh my _God_."

Trent seemed to realise the moment the words were out that he'd said the wrong thing, and tried to backpedal. "But Lex has the street smarts to stick to places she knows."

Daria stared out the window. "She'll still be in town somewhere. I'm pretty sure she's just trying to punish her parents."

"That makes sense."

It did, but the fact that her normally rational niece thought that running away was the best way to get her parents to open a dialogue was worrying.

Trent parked off Dega Street, and the two of them worked their way down either side of the street, checking into clubs, diners, galleries, arcades, and theatres. Nothing. Nothing. Nada. Plenty of kids Lex's age breaking curfew, but none of them had seen the little redhead.

After doing a circuit of the street, the two of them met up in front of Axl's Piercings. Daria spotted Trent look wistfully into the darkened storefront.

"Something else you want to punch a hole in?"

The sudden cheeky grin he shot her was enough to shock a laugh out of her. The next second it was like a massive weight had been lifted off her shoulders, and Daria slumped forward, her hands flat against the window.

"I think I'm having a heart attack. Or a breakdown."

An arm gently snaked around her shoulders.

"As someone who got pretty close to a breakdown, you've got a while to go yet."

Daria straightened. "Why did you say you'd be Lex's mentor in the first place?"

"Really? I thought she could use a friend." Trent said. "And she kinda reminded me of you."

She turned to face him. Trent's face was thoughtful. "What?"

"When you were eight, and wanted to make someone sweat, but be somewhere safe, where would you go?"

Daria frowned.

Her mind immediately cleared.

"I know where she is."

* * *

Daria rattled the chain. "Gate's locked."

"Course it is." Trent was craning upwards, sizing up the ivy-covered brick walls. "C'mere."

Daria frowned at him, and Trent formed a cradle with his hands, fingers linked together, feet apart for stability. He jerked his head in a _move your butt_ gesture. She sighed. "I can't believe I'm doing this. I can't believe you're doing this. We're supposed to be grown-ups, damn it."

"D'you want in, or not?"

Grumbling, she put her hands on his shoulders.

"Now."

Daria stepped into his hands, and he boosted her upwards. Her hands scrabbled on the moss-covered brick, hanging on for dear life, and with an extra push from Trent, she pulled herself up to perch unsteadily on the top of the wall. As she watched, Trent kicked his boot into a crack in the wall he and scaled the brick with an ease and speed Daria would never have expected, slipping over the top of the wall and lightly landing on the other side in a crouch.

"Holy _crap_." Daria stared at him with wide eyes. "Well, _someone_ was a little delinquent."

"I've had my moments."

Trent gave a smug grin, proud of himself, before reach up for her hands. Making sure she had a firm grip on him so she wouldn't fall flat on her face, Daria allowed Trent to pull her off the wall.

Lawndale Cemetery sprawled around them in all directions. Anyone else would have been put off by the crumbling angels and crooked tombstones, but to Daria the utter stillness was calming, allowing her to centre herself. She could tell by Trent's squared shoulders slowly slumping back down that he could feel it too.

"Trent?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm sorry."

"About what?"

"This morning." Daria said. "Just, acting like nothing happened. In front of Jane."

"It's fine, I get it. It's another level of weird you don't need."

"What? No, that's not-" Daria took a breath. "We had a moment, didn't we?"

"I thought we did." He said guardedly, not entirely sure where this was heading.

"I just – I can't believe I'm about to say this, but this is kind of new for me."

The look he shot her was highly sceptical. Daria kept her eyes down as she followed the path further into the cemetery.

"I'm not too good with the emotions side of things."

"And _I_ am? I write songs comparing cheating women to refrigerators, and wax lyrical about household furniture."

"I liked _From the Futon_."

"You liar."

_Put on your big girl pants and get on with it, Morgendorffer._

"Listen, Trent. I like you. And I'd like to see where this goes. But the thing is, I'm not..." She swiped at her hair impatiently, frustrated at herself for never being able to explain this properly. "Look at me, the big author, and I can't even use my _words_. The thing is, I can't seem to _relationship_ the way other people do."

Trent put his hands in his pockets. "I reiterate my point about the furniture."

"Outside of work I can spend days without seeing anyone and talking to my takeaway guy only using consonants. Sometimes the forced togetherness of a social gathering can make me physically ill. I will refrain from PDAs if at all possible. I like my own space, and have been known to kick people out of it. And I've got a weird addiction to renovation programs. Read into that what you will."

"I smoke and I drink." Trent said. "Sometimes I'm working crazier hours than I was when I was with the Spiral. I doodle crap lyrics in board meetings so I don't actually fall asleep, coz I hear people think that's _unprofessional_. Sappy public displays of affection don't do it for me either, but the occasional hand holding or butt slap is nice to know the girl's still interested. And I binge on Tarantino films with the sound off with an endless bag of Doritos and a bucket of cola."

"Huh."

The corner of his mouth quirked in a grin. "Is there anything else you want to, you know, get out of the way while we're here?"

"Bad habits?" Daria asked.

"Plenty. You?"

"Let's just say _yes_ and leave it at that."

She looked up at him, grizzled and greying and sexy as all hell and _(making out in a cemetery at night doesn't even crack the Top_ Ten, _what the hell's_ wrong _with me) –_

"There she is." There was a note of relief in his voice as Trent looked up over her head. Daria's head snapped around so fast she could have given herself whiplash.

And there her niece was, sitting on a stone bench in the centre of the cemetery, shivering in her too-thin purple jacket.

"Alexis?" Daria said.

Lex looked up. From the panic in the girl's eyes, Daria could immediately tell that this _running away_ jag hadn't been particularly planned. Lex had probably simply walked out of Holly's house and kept walking. Daria and Trent sat either side of her, silent. Daria took off her sweatshirt and slipped it around her niece.

"I'm sorry." Lex sniffed. "I shouldn't have run away."

Daria didn't say anything.

"I just want my parents to talk."

She and Trent exchanged a look over Lex's head.

"I want them to see _me_."

"I get it, kiddo." Daria said softly. "I do."

"I know all about wanting your folks to see you." Trent said. "But, Lex, this isn't the way to get it, and you know that."

The fond, _you little idiot_ was strongly implied.

"Have you actually tried to talk to them about it? This passive-aggressive thing will only depress you if the people you're dealing with are a few clowns short of a circus and don't get it in the first place." Daria said.

"I'm eight. Who will listen to me?"

"You've got quite a few people listening right now. There's no better time for it."

"Your aunt's right." Trent said. "Sometimes I still wish that I had bothered to actually talk to my parents, told them how it bothered me for them to just let me do my own thing the whole time."

Daria looked at him.

He raised an eyebrow, and elaborated. "It's hard to reach any sort of personal goals when no one ever had any expectations for you."

The three sat in silence for a long moment.

"I'm going to be in so much trouble." Lex said finally.

"Oh, you better believe it, kid."

And suddenly Daria could breathe again. No, kids really weren't for her. You couldn't _pay_ her to put up with this crap.

Lex was belted down in the backseat while Trent drove. Daria started a game of phone tag with her family before slumping back into the seat. Now the adrenaline was starting to wear off, she was starting to feel sleepy. She could only imagine how Trent was feeling since she was fairly certain that, beside from a catnap that morning that she'd interrupted, he hadn't slept since the previous day. But then, he had essentially admitted that he had always kept weird hours, and was probably accustomed to it by now.

"God, I've _had_ it. This _day_."

Trent smirked, eyes on the road ahead. "I've still got to get back to work."

"Oh. Right. I sort of forgot about that."

"I'm sorry." Lex whimpered in the back.

"Hey, Hex was more than happy to step in."

"I like Hex." The little girl said.

"So do I." Trent replied.

Daria frowned before she could stop it. _Get a grip. He's thirty-nine, of course he has other lady friends._

"Hey, Trent?"

"Yeah, Daria?"

"Were you serious about wanting me to write for the radio?"

At that, Lex perked up. "You're going to write for the radio?"

"I'm serious about everything."

"Uh huh." Daria said, while Lex giggled.

"I _am_ serious." Trent said. "No matter how stupid it sounds at the time, I mean everything I say."

"I suppose you do."

"This is great!" Lex said. "What are you going to write?"

"Just a radio play. About ten minutes a night." Daria said. "It's interesting working within the constraints of radio, considering there's only you and this... _Hex_ on late nights for voiceover work."

"I can call in some of the other voices if you need. See who else might be interested."

"I don't see people lining up at midnight to do a ten minute slot."

"A paycheck is a paycheck."

"You've become so cynical in your old age." Daria said. "I'm keeping it simple so far. A guy and a girl."

Trent's lips quirked into a smile. "Who am I playing?"

"Don't be cheeky." Lex said.

"Yes, m'."

"You're a jaded veteran cop. You end up going renegade with your police dog, Jake."

Trent and Lex both laughed at that.

Daria looked out the window. "I kept with the War of the Worlds vibe, so it's like a descent into dystopian madness, seen through the eyes of our reporter lead."

"With Martians?" Lex asked hopefully.

"Genetically engineered monsters."

" _Awesome_."

"So it semi-autobiographical." Trent teased.

"Shut up."

The car pulled into the driveway of the Morgendorffer house, and Quinn and Simon immediately descended, Helen, Jake and Jane not far behind.

"Here we go." Daria said. "Once more unto the breach, dear friends."

* * *

Daria half-expected the family to be cited for wasting police time, but the two officers waiting for them praised Helen for calling, assuring Daria's parents that there was no time to waste when a child was missing.

The female officer politely asked Lex whether they could talk for a moment, and the girl seemed to huddle down even further into Daria's sweatshirt.

"You know what, I feel like some coffee." Jane said.

"Yeah, I think I could use one, too." Jake said. "Honey?"

"I could use something stronger." Helen said. "But I'm supposed to be at the office in the morning, so coffee will do."

"What about you, my man?" Jake asked Trent. "One for the road?"

"Sure." Trent said. "Caffeine would be good."

And so they left the officers with Lex, Quinn and Simon sitting either side of her, as the female officer spoke to her quietly about running away. Daria sighed regretfully before following the others into the kitchen.

Jake was staring hard at the industrial-grade, gleaming coffee machine on the counter, his expression saying _alright, machine, this time it's personal._ Lining the mugs up on the counter, he reached for the beans and unscrewed the grinder. Helen was standing off to the side, her arms folded and her cocked eyebrow saying that she already knew what was going to happen, but she never got tired of watching.

Jane heaved a sigh. "Well, this was dramatic and all." She glanced at Trent. "And to think I thought that we were done chasing after kids in the middle of the night."

Trent frowned. "That sounds wrong."

"Thank you so much for your help." Helen said. "Both of you. I'm afraid I rather lost my head in the moment, and you two were just so calm and in control."

The look the Lane siblings shared said _we've had practise._

"Aw, Mrs Morgendorffer, you're making me blush." Jane grinned.

"Mom, you can't be the sane one in every situation." Daria said.

"And Jake was great," Jane said.

"Yes, he was." Helen said warmly, looking speculatively at her husband. Still fiddling with the coffee machine, Daria couldn't see her dad's expression, but she could tell that he heard every word as his back straightened and his shoulders squared at the praise, showing off like a peacock.

After a few moments, there were the sounds of the police officers leaving, politely wishing them a good night. Simon farewelled them before closing the door. Daria put her coffee down on the table. _Oh, here it comes._

Jane and Trent exchanged another glance. "We might just hang out in here for a bit. Visit the refrigerator, y'know, re-live some teenage nostalgia."

"Smooth." Daria said. Rising, she cautiously peered around the kitchen door, her mom not far behind her.

"-I'm just so sorry." Lex was saying. "I really didn't mean to, like, get everyone so worried. I just kept walking, I wasn't even thinking."

"I understand." Simon said. "But it was still so irresponsible! Anything could have happened to you, Alexis." _Amazing. He sounds like an actual father._

"I told Poppy I was fine."

"That's not the same and you know it." Quinn said briskly. "And that doesn't excuse you from not taking any of our calls. You can't just take off like that."

"Crap." Helen and Daria said at the same time.

" _You_ take off like that all the time." Lex flared immediately.

"Now, Lex-" Simon started.

"And so do _you_! You take off and leave me here expecting Poppy and Grandma to raise me while you both go off and live your lives like you were still single. Surprise! You're not single! You have me!"

"Lex, I know you're upset, but this really isn't the place for-"

"I think it is." Daria interjected. Three heads turned in her direction.

Quinn's face shuttered. "Daria, no offence, but what would you know-"

"I know enough to tell that this family is fucked by the things we don't tell each other." Daria said.

"Swear jar." Lex said.

"We don't say anything meaningful to each other, and lie and pretend everything is okay, and let the resentment build up and up and up until we explode." She said. "Don't pass this on to another generation."

The house was silent.

"I'm sorry, sweetie." Simon said finally. "I'm coming home, I really am. I'm going to be a nice and boring P&C dad who drops you off at school and picks you up in the afternoon. I was just trying to make sure we had enough money to live comfortably, that you would never want for anything."

"I don't care about money." Lex's eyes were red-rimmed. "I just wanted my Mom and Daddy."

The sharp look Helen shot Quinn said _you next._

Quinn closed her eyes, hands gripping her knees. "And I'm sorry to both of you." Her normally bubbly voice was flat. "I... I've been scared."

"What?" Lex said.

"What?" Simon said.

"You both terrify me. You're both so _driven_ and stuff and I feel like such a _burnout_ that it's easier to tell myself that you don't really need me." She looked at her husband. "I just feel, like, this need to _compete_ , and I hate it. I look at all those young girls hanging around you and I just think _I can't keep up with that._ "

"Are you insane?" Simon demanded. "Why would you need to compete with me? Why would you think you need to keep up with those groupies hanging around the set for their fifteen minutes of fame? You didn't even know who I was when we first met! We married at the courthouse and then went out for burgers!"

"I dunno." Quinn glanced up quickly at Daria. "I've always had a bit of a self-esteem problem, I guess. And then I look at you, baby, and I just can't keep up with you. You're so smart and perceptive and I'm just so _not_ , so I keep thinking I'm going to mess everything up."

"Mommy-" Lex threw herself into Quinn's arms.

Quinn looked up at Simon over Lex's head. "I was going to take you both to Bermuda over Christmas, to try and bring us all closer." She said. "One of the shop boys was handling everything for me so I could keep it a surprise."

Lex frowned, looking up at her mom in confusion. " _That's_ the young guy that's been hanging around." Her face crumpled, and Daria recognised the look of someone who was normally so right getting something hideously wrong. "Crapbuckets."

"Swear jar." Quinn said. "And you're still grounded."

* * *

Jake dropped them off at Trent's building, making sure they were safely inside before driving off.

Jane practically passed out the moment they were over the threshold, but Daria's mind was still whirring, the coffee probably not helping her mental state in the slightest. Everything with the Morgendorffers was such a damn _drama_! Forget the fucking Kardashians, just get MTV to follow Quinn around for a while, and you could be _damn_ sure you'd get something juicier than whatever was on the latest scripted 'reality' show.

Daria needed to stop thinking.

_Good luck with that._

_Save Quinn's marriage._ Well, at least something else could be potentially struck off her to-do list.

After an hour of tossing and turning and waking at the smallest sound, Daria finally grudgingly accepted that she was getting no sleep tonight. The blankets gathered in her lap, she reached for her glasses.

The cursor on the blank new document on the laptop blinked at her menacingly. Daria cracked her knuckles.

"All right, computer, this is just between you and me."

She was writing solidly hunched over her laptop until about three in the morning when she could make out the sound of the lift and after a moment the front door opened. Daria heard Trent's slow, sure footsteps. Moving around in the dark like he knew precisely where everything was, there was a pronounced stoop to his shoulders that told Daria that he was well and truly knackered.

"Well, you look awful."

"In the immortal words of Roger Murtaugh, I'm too old for this shit." He muffled a yawn against the back of his hand. "Why the hell are you still up?"

"Adrenaline is doing funny things to my body clock."

"Yeah, I've been there." He kicked off his boots, shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it at the hat rack. The jacket missed by inches, landing on a pile on the floor, and Trent stared at it with an expression that clearly said _well, fuck you too._

Daria gathered her blankets to her so Trent could sit on the couch beside her. He collapsed bonelessly into a corner of the couch, rubbing at his cheeks like he was trying to get feeling back into his face. Lit by her laptop screen, Daria was afforded a good look at his scarred hands. There were silvery, almost-invisible shrapnel marks on his arms as well, disappearing up underneath his t-shirt. It was like a punch in the guts all over again as Daria had somehow almost forgotten.

Daria wordlessly reached for the remote, flicking on the TV.

_Harry Potter & the Deathly Hallows 1 & 2 _were playing back to back on cable. Daria pulled her knees up to her chin as Daniel Radcliffe & Co. and the Evil Nazi Wizards™ pointed their wands at each other as hard as they could with grimaces like they were keeping their sphincters clenched shut the entire time.

"Now that's whatcha call acting."

Trent chuckled, and then yawned. "It takes a real gift."

And the two settled down to watch The Boy Wonder and The Continuing Quest to Bleed Every Last Drop Of Innocence Out of Your Childhood.

It seemed like she had only closed her eyes for a moment when suddenly there were pigeons hooting at each other from the bay window. _Fuckin' rats of the air..._ she had learned a proper New Yorker's contempt for pigeons in the time she had been away. Hell, sometimes there were clouds of them like something out of a Hitchcock movie, just waiting to carry you off, and they all looked at you as if with the same hive mind.

One arm dropped over the side of the couch, blindly searching for her phone or something else to throw at the birds, but as she almost rolled off the couch in her uncoordinated struggles, she froze.

A hand tightened on her hip.

A hand that wasn't hers.

A couple of calloused fingers had crept beneath the hem of her sweater, resting gently against the soft skin there.

_Oh._

_Crap._

Carefully Daria began going about the excruciating process of extracting herself from Trent Lane's sleeping octopus embrace. Her glasses had dug into the side of her face and the bridge of her nose, leaving funny red welts. The blankets had been twisted around both of them, tangling their legs together. The light morning sun was slowly creeping across the floor. It was highly unlikely to happen any time soon, but Jane would never let her forget it if she walked in and caught Daria essentially _in flagrante delicto_ with her big brother on the couch-

-a flash went off in her face-

"Ack!"

Daria bolted upright, almost tumbling off the couch. When her vision finally cleared, she could make out Jane upside-down on the single armchair, pyjama-clad legs crossed over the back of the chair, iPhone in hand.

_Fuck._

"You're going to pay for that one, missy."

_"_ Jane _,_ what the _hell_?"

"I could be asking you the very same question." Jane said pleasantly. "I know my brother is a bit of a deviant, but I thought _you_ of all people would confine it to the bedroom and not drag it out into common areas."

Daria blushed. "We were watching Harry Potter and fell asleep!"

"That's a euphemism I've never heard."

"Nothing happened. See, we've still got all our clothes on."

"A likely story."

There was a stirring behind her.

"Wa's goin'on?" Trent sounded disoriented. Well, Daria would sound disoriented too if she had been woken with bright lights and loud noises after being asleep for, she checked her watch, only _two_ _hours_. Jesus. They didn't do much better than that in Guantanamo Bay.

"Oh, nothing much." Jane said to her brother. "I'm just thinking of forwarding this snuggle pic to all the girls at the station who've complained to me over the years about how hard it is to get you into bed. Turns out, all they had to do this whole time was turn on the Boy Wizard." Jane frowned. "And there's a line I never thought I'd ever use."

"And hopefully will never use again." Daria said.

"Come on, Janey." Trent said. "I've never been that easy."

Jane coughed _bullshit_ into her hand.

"I hear that's going around." Daria raised an eyebrow.

"'Sides, it's close to twenty years now." Trent pulled his legs from around the back of Daria and sat up unsteadily, squinting into the faint early-morning light like he was one of the first mole people to ever see the surface. "That's, like, got to be the longest play in history, or something."

"Huh." Jane said, while Daria pulled a face at him.

"How come every man I know has a weird hyper-inflated perception of exactly how important they are?"

"Because in reality we all have a little voice telling us we're insignificant and interchangeable." Trent rose on unsteady legs. "And the only way we can drown it out is by telling ourselves that we're better than the other guy along."

Jane and Daria stared at him.

"What?"

"That's actually really insightful." Jane blinked. "Are you channelling Woody Allen, or something?"

"Woody Allen isn't dead." Daria said.

Trent started to shake his head, but stopped when the world started to spin. "You two are weird. I'm gonna go get in another few hours before my shift tomorrow."

"Today."

"Whatever. And Daria?"

"Um, yes?"

"You think you want to get your story together for me? We can get to the station an hour early, you can see the setup, talk to Hex, that kind of thing, and then go off and do whatever."

"Erm, sure."

"And then we'll be ready to go tomorrow."

Jane cocked an eyebrow. " _Tomorrow_ tomorrow as compared to _today_ tomorrow?"

"Don't be a smartass." Trent said.

"Yes, Dad."

She swallowed.

_Tomorrow?_

* * *

Daria sat on the fire escape with her computer in her lap, compulsively going through her work. it was something she had been in the habit of doing for years when she was about to reach a deadline, until she had jack-knifed and cut-throated her way up the hierarchy to the point where all she had to do was read the work other writer monkeys had churned out while looking pretty and vacant.

What if Trent didn't like it? What if the story turned out to be too complicated to stage? What if _Lawndale_ didn't like her work? What would that mean for her?

_Ah, screw it._ She opened her email, and clicked on _compose_.

Daria started an email to Simon.

_Hey, Si, I've attached a script and some additional info for you that might work, about a female spy, called Melody Powers, currently untitled._

_Since the female demographic has increased ridiculously for action movies, particularly since Marvel got into the habit of only hiring hotties, it might be an idea to have an empowering hero movie with a female lead. The takings from the Wonder Woman reboot speak for themselves._

_Daria._

She attached her files and sent the email. The writing _was_ fun and it was nice to give Melody a proper send-off, but the idea of being a screenwriter didn't really appeal. At least now she had decided on one thing she definitely _didn't_ want to do.

In her pocket, her phone started vibrating. After a moment she fished it out and stared at the unknown number on the screen.

"Morgendorffer."

" _Hi Daria, it's Tom_."

Oh _,_ God _._


	9. Chapter 9

_"_ _How are you?"_

_My career is in freefall, my family is nuts, I almost had a coronary last night, and I'm starting to realise that maybe Jane knows more about me than I'm entirely comfortable with..._ "Good."

Awkward silence. Daria was sincerely playing with the idea of pretending the call had dropped out.

_"_ _Um, so this is awkward."_

"No kidding."

_"_ _It's been a while."_

They had kept in touch for the first couple of years in college, the occasional call here and there, but Daria turned out to be horribly right during their breakup all those years ago, and with each month that passed Tom had changed from that sardonic piss-taker that Daria had fallen for to someone who was cool and calculating and with the potential to turn into a businessman megalomaniac of Trump-like proportions at the flip of a switch. All he needed was a catalyst.

Somewhere along the line, she stopped answering his calls and he stopped calling.

As an associate at his father's investment firm, lord knew how much of a point his elitism had been honed to.

"You need perspective on the situation?" Daria said. "Where did you get my number?"

_"_ _You've always had the same number, Daria."_ A chuckle. _"So listen, I want to know if you want to get dinner tonight."_

"Why?"

_"_ _Do I need an excuse to take a woman for a meal?"_

"No, but people might talk if you don't have a good enough reason to take out your ex-girlfriend that you haven't seen in fifteen years."

_"_ _Maybe because I work for an investment firm and need to improve my image by going out with a super-hot news anchor?"_

"You work for an investment firm. Murdering someone would improve your image."

_"Oh, you sweet-talker, you."_

"Do any of your lines actually work for you?"

_"_ _Not as such."_

"I can believe that."

_"_ _So, shall we say nine o'clock tonight at La Rennard? You're at your parents, right?"_

"Um. Not exactly." The thought of Tom turning up at Trent's doorstep was slightly terrifying, even if there _hadn't_ been the kind-of thing getting in the way. "Look, how about I meet you there?"

_"_ _Um."_ For a minute the smooth facade slipped as she derailed him. _"Sure, I guess."_

"Am I depriving you of the opportunity to show off how successful you are?"

_"_ _Am I that transparent?"_

"Like cling-wrap."

Tom laughed. _"I'll see you, Daria."_

"Sure."

She hung up.

_Why does my life have to suddenly get this complicated?_

"Damn _it_."

Jane was Skypeing with Marco at her gallery when Daria clambered back inside. They were going to be holding an exhibition on Jane's return to New York and Marco had been left with the preparation. As much as he whined about the work, he loved fussing about with the details and seeing everything was done properly. Before their very first showing together as partners, Marco had completely redone everything Jane had already organised, so since then she had just decided it was easier to just let him get on with it and do it his way from the beginning and avoid the aggravation.

"You'll be there, right?" Jane asked, shutting down the computer.

"Of course. Don't I always come?"

"Well, yeah. I was just checking in case you have alternate plans."

"Jane, what alternate plans could I possibly have?"

Her best friend frowned at her. "You mean you still don't know what you're going to do?"

In her voice it was clear Jane didn't just mean the employment situation.

"I'm getting there."

"You _better."_

"Just so you know, I don't respond to threats. Blackmail, yes. Threats, no."

"I was _there_ in 99 percent of the blackmail-worthy moments of your life, Morgendorffer. For the other 1% I was in the other room."

At around one that afternoon something began rustling around in Trent's bedroom.

"About time." Jane said. "I was starting to wonder."

"Don't get excited yet. It could be that a massive possum that's been hanging around the last few days."

"Unless that possum has taught himself how to flush the can and turn on the shower, I think we're pretty safe."

Daria's nose wrinkled. "I had a roommate whose cat turned on the lights, opened the cupboards, and could turn on the electric can opener. For six months she was convinced we were living with a ghost."

"Point taken."

Almost an hour later, and after a few hacking throaty coughs that made Daria wince, Trent finally emerged from the Batcave, in worn jeans and a black button-down. He hadn't shaved, dark stubble shot through with grey giving him a vague Clint Eastwood look.

"You ready to go?"

"Um, sure."

Trent turned to his sister. "Are you coming too?"

"Hell, how can a girl say no to an invitation like that?" Jane's eyebrows rose. "A change is as good as a holiday, after all."

"If you don't have any expectations in life." Daria said.

* * *

It was painfully obvious that the building hadn't started its life as a radio station, with the hodgepodge of shonky additions, outbuildings and dubious style trends that no one could quite be arsed to knock over or repaint. Inside was like a rabbit warren, small corridors leading off to places that Daria couldn't quite make out, like the Winchester House in California where staircases led to a solid wall and doors opened out into midair.

Trent disappeared to sign in and get his ID, and emerged with two visitor passes for Daria and Jane. Daria sighed as she slipped the pass over her head. She kind of hoped that she had progressed past the stage of her life where she was required to have a synthetic-fibre neon-coloured noose shackled around her neck.

No such luck.

The next second, a cheerful greeting came up the corridor.

"Hello, Trent! Children, all together. _Good afternoon, Mr Lane_!"

_Oh, God._

Timothy O'Neill was standing at the head of a phalanx of elementary-school students who were in the middle of a tour of the station by a harried-looking intern. He'd lost a bit on top, but otherwise appeared practically the same. Automatically, both Jane and Daria stepped back almost as if they could hide behind Trent and somehow become invisible.

"Hey." Trent said. "Hey, you lot."

"Good afternoon, Mr Lane." The kids said, at prompting from O'Neill. Each of them was slightly out of sync with the next as they avoided meeting anyone's eyes. Daria winced, suddenly flashing back to grade school, where the brainwashing had first begun.

A lone voice piped up from the back.

"Can your antenna pick up signals from outer space?"

A ripple of laughter went through the children.

Jane rolled her eyes.

_Class clown, there. Fucking hilarious._

"That would be telling." Trent smiled indulgently like he had heard that question god knew how many times before. "You'll have to get a Communications degree to find out, kid."

Daria frowned. _You have a Communications degree?_

Two of the other teachers began chivvying the students to the next stop while O'Neill held out his hand to Trent.

"I don't think I can ever thank you enough for allowing these tours, Trent." He enthused. "The kids love seeing the technical aspect to working in radio, and it's also _so_ inspiring to the children to see that you really _can_ make anything of yourself if your drive is strong enough, even if you don't have anything else, if you've _lost_ everything else."

That was actually kind of insulting, but Daria knew there was no real maliciousness behind Mr O'Neill's obliviousness. Trent just shrugged it off.

"No problem, man."

"So many eccentric characters have found their voices here! It really shows that no matter how much of an outcast you are, you _will_ find your place eventually."

_Uh huh._

Jane's face was twitching, like she was itching to say something. Finally the compulsion to speak won out over the need to remain unnoticed.

"Yes, that's what this station is about. Unity and all that Xanadu crap. It's not about building a guerrilla army out of the resentful or disillusioned or anything, no. Where would you get that idea from?"

Mr O'Neill tuned to them both with a tremulous smile.

"Jane? Daria?"

_Dammit._

"Hi, Mr O'Neill." Daria said.

"Oh, please, Daria. We're all adults here, please call me Timothy."

"Um, sure."

"Oh my goodness, how _are_ you? We missed you at the ten year reunion!"

_Yes, and there's a reason for that. It's called_ Ten Year Reunion _._

"Who's 'we'?" Jane asked.

"Well, I know _I_ did. Oh my, aren't you supposed to be big celebrities in New York?"

"I wouldn't say ' _celebrity'_." Daria said uncertainly.

"Oh, Daria, stop being so modest. You're all over the news!" Jane grinned.

"That's because I'm a news anchor, dear Jane. _You_ were the one in _Artist's Monthly_ who had the critics calling you the ' _tortured new voice of our generation'_."

"Yes! I have that issue!" O'Neill enthused. " _So_ inspiring. I made sure that my students knew that Jane Lane was a Lawndale High graduate, that we all took joy in moulding!"

Jane's smile dropped at that.

"And she's been mouldering ever since." Daria said.

"Look, man." In his own way, Trent charged in to save the day. "We've kinda got something to work on, so we've gotta fly."

"What are you working-?"

"Sorry, closed rehearsals. You dig?"

_Not really._ But the pleasant, no-room-for-questions tone he used somehow told O'Neill that the subject was closed.

"Of course. I'm interrupting the creative process of collaboration." Mr O'Neill's eyes were shining. "I just hope you think of me when you unveil your newest creation."

"Uh, sure."

"We're like artists. This is how we express ourselves." Jane said brightly.

Daria sighed.

Finally free from the clutches of probably one of the weirdest men Daria had ever known, the three of them went on their merry way. People _hello_ -d Trent as he went past, and a couple of the sound engineers even waved to Jane. Daria blushed as she saw people scrutinising her closely, and saw recognition in some eyes. Whether they recognised her as the girl from TV or the girl from high school, she wasn't going to stop to find out.

Trent ambled along, hands in his pockets, seemingly unaware of the rising levels of awkwardness.

"What happened at high school?"

"Huh?"

"O'Neill. He used to teach English at Lawndale High." Daria said.

"Oh, yeah." Trent said. "Apparently there was some kind of, like, student uprising or something and the new Principal thought the students may respond more favourably to him if he was the tallest in the room. Lex knows all about it."

Jane grinned. "DeMartino sent him back to grade school!"

"At least Kevin's still there, so Mr O'Neill won't be lonely." Daria said.

* * *

"Hey, Orly. Hex in?"

A short man with a shock of ginger hair, Orly put down the tablet and sheaf of papers he was holding.

"Yeah, boss, she got your call." He pushed his glasses up his nose. "I think she's in the booth, keeping an eye on the new kid."

"Thanks, man."

"Who's she?" Moleman looked through his thick glasses at Daria suspiciously. Daria frowned.

_Do I have '_ ulterior motive' _tattooed across my forehead?_

"I'm just the scullery maid, sir, here to iron the sheets and fluff the bedspreads."

Trent chuckled. "Daria's written a bit for me."

"And I'm her bodyguard." Jane said.

"Um..."

"Don't worry, Orly. They're signed in and pass-ed up, all by the book." Trent said. "Don't worry so much about being busted by the boss. I hear he's an asshole anyway."

Jane and Orly laughed. Even Daria's expression softened a little.

The main recording booth was roughly in the centre of the building, ringed with wide windows so anyone could look in and see the DJs at it. A young blonde guy, 'the new kid' was sitting behind a microphone with massive headphones on that made him look like a space alien from a TV show in the 60s, chatting away.

They stood in the control room as a techie manned the transmitter. Trent flicked a switch on the wall, and the next moment the kid's voice was filtered through the corridors.

There was a girl not that much younger than Daria herself sitting opposite the kid, an ankle balanced on her other knee as she leant back in her swivel chair casually, and Daria got her first-ever look at Hex.

Oh.

_Dammit._

She looked like she could have been the cool female DJ at any club in New York, with calf-high boots over blue jeans and a black vest over a white shirt. The sideways, choppy bob had a streak of blue in the fringe, a style on a thirty-some woman that should have looked a little mutton-dressed-as-lamb, but somehow she managed to make it work. Daria swallowed.

Trent tapped on the glass, enough to get attention without making it into the broadcast, and the two of them looked up. With his round face and dimples, the blonde kid looked about nine years old and vaguely familiar. Daria wondered whether his mother knew he was playing hooky from school. He winked and shot Trent with finger guns while Trent shook his head.

"It's a good thing you don't do video broadcasts on Sundays." Jane said.

"A face for radio." Daria agreed.

Hex was something different. She had shot them a bright smile which seemed at odds with her alternate rocker image. Upon leaving the booth, she fist-bumped Trent before giving him a casual, one-armed hug.

"Hi, boss."

"Hey, Hex."

She stepped back, and looked up at him, hands on her hips. "So I hear you got the kid."

"Yeah, no big. Thanks for covering."

"Hey, it's cool. You owe me a favour, though."

"Uh huh."

"And I'll be sure to call it in when it's the most inconvenient."

"That sounds like you."

"Cheeky." Her steady gaze switched to Daria and Jane. She was pretty, with full lips and high cheekbones, and a feeling of familiarity nagged at Daria. She knew this woman from somewhere.

"You remember my sister Jane?"

"Yeah. Hi."

"Yo." Jane said. "I saw you race in the Lawndale celebrity charity cup last year. That was pretty cool, especially how you corrected out of that tailspin. I don't know how no one collected you on the bend."

"Believe me, I was waiting to be rear-ended the entire time."

"And this is Daria Morgendorffer."

They shook hands. Hex was watching her curiously before her eyes cleared, like _she_ had recognised _Daria_ from somewhere.

" _You're_ Quinn's cousin." Her smile was open and friendly. "Or whatever."

It hit her. "Fashion Club Stacy."

Trent frowned. "' _Fashion_ _Club_ _Stacy'_?"

"Let's just say that Hex has a secret identity and leave it at that." Jane told her brother. "Not everyone has the fates align to be born naturally as cool and alternative as _you_ , bro."

"Hm." Trent gave his sister a narrow-eyed look, fairly certain that she was taking the piss. Jane smiled brightly.

"After all, if you were any more laid-back you'd be dead."

Hex/Stacy spotted the papers peeking out of Daria's messenger bag. "Is that the play?"

Daria felt colour rise in her cheeks. "Um, yes. I've got copies for each of you and have divided the script roughly into ten-minute intervals. I thought it would be best to go through it all together so if there are any changes you'd like to make, you can bring it up now."

"I'm sure it's fine, Daria." Trent said.

"I'm sure it is, too." Stacy said cheerily. "You were always smarter than the rest of us, and when Trent said you were writing the play, I was _so_ excited! I _love_ your writing!"

Daria frowned. "You know my writing?"

"I watched that show you were writing for, _Up Late with Sammy Tobin._ " Stacy said. "And Quinn started a scrapbook years ago with all your editorials that she insisted on showing everyone."

"That's sweet, and yet serial killer-ish at the same time." Daria said.

"It's amazing how often those two overlap." Jane observed.

"Do you still talk to Quinn?"

While naive, the Stacy Daria remembered from her teenagehood was sweet and loyal. Thinking about it, Quinn really could have used a friend right about now.

She shrugged. "We sort of just drifted apart after I got out of business school and she started her boutique. But that's the way it goes, right? Who really stays friends with the people they met in high school?"

Daria and Jane exchanged a glance.

"Oops." Stacy coloured. "I mean, um. Not _you guys_ , of course! One of these days I'm going to learn how to think _before_ I speak."

"How in God's name do you survive in radio?" Jane sounded genuinely curious.

"I'm a lot cleverer and cooler on the radio than I am in real life." She dropped her voice in a similar way Daria had been taught when she first became a broadcast journalist, becoming lower and smoother and sexier, ironing out a lot of natural speech inflections. "It's all play-acting. That's probably why I keep up a steady stream of word vomit when I'm not on the air. At least that's what I tell myself."

Jane was looking at her brother. "Do you fake it, too?"

" _All_ the time, sis."

"Ew, okay. Didn't need the extra emphasis."

But Daria was looking at Stacy.

"Can you do a _harder_ voice?" She asked. "Like you're conveying that you're going to get to the bottom of the problem no matter what?"

"Let's find out." Jane said.

Daria and Jane were led to the lounge while Trent and Stacy chatted away about work. A new shipment of music had arrived that morning, and was in the process of being listed and entered into the system. It sounded tedious, but the two of them had climbed up the greasy pole to the point that the grunt work was now someone else's job.

Apparently tomorrow, on Monday night, a new nightclub was opening in downtown Lawndale, which the two of them had been invited to attend. _Life was so hard._ It was technically a workday for them as they were going to be broadcasting live, while Trent himself had been invited to do a little _actual_ DJ-ing. Stacy ribbed him gently that he had been simply loading a playlist for so long that he had probably forgotten how to really spin the decks.

Trent replied that he could get the job done, while all _she_ had to do was smile and look pretty. Stacy said that she was perfectly happy to swap if he wanted.

Daria found herself weirdly jealous of their easy relationship. Trent never had any preconceptions of other people, and neither did Stacy, which allowed a close platonic relationship to form between Hex and Mystik.

Jane got them all sodas from the staff fridge as Daria pulled the play from her bag. She had made multiple copies, and the ones for Trent and Stacy were highlighted in their separate parts.

There was nothing more interminable than sitting down and watching other people read. _Especially_ when it was your writing. She watched their faces for the occasional smirk or frown, biting back the impulse to ask what was causing it, her hands folded on the table in front of her.

Trent was the first to finish, and after a few more minutes so did Stacy. Daria gripped her hands together tighter as the two of them looked up.

"Well?"

"I love it!" Stacy enthused. "Kit's voice comes through so _clear_ , and Jake is such a sweetheart!"

"I wasn't sure Jake would work within the parameters of radio." Daria said.

"Of course he will. We just have to put some dog samples onto the mixing board." Stacy said, chewing her bottom lip in a way that Daria was sure that legions of men found utterly adorable. "And Sam is so dark and nuanced. I love how his history and how it's relevant to the current situation is slowly revealed instead of all at once, and, well, um, the character suits the voice too, y'know."

"Everyone loves a good anti-hero." Daria glanced at Trent, who would be playing NYPD Detective Sam Stone, the officer who went renegade to follow the distribution line of an addictive new mutating drug. "A cut throat is a sexier explanation for a husky voice than a smoking habit." He shrugged.

"You know it." Jane said.

Daria coloured slightly.

"That is _not_ what I meant." Stacy said sternly.

Trent just smiled.

"So I've just got this particular _tone_ in mind when I think of her." Daria said, ignoring the Lane siblings.

"No problem. Tell me when to stop." Stacy dropped her voice again, getting rid of the sultry and adding a more confident and assertive note. Daria wondered if she had first learnt to act in the Fashion Club, and she was so good at it she just decided to keep going to see where she ended up. Like she said, play-acting. " _And I'm Kit Morgan, writing for the New York Times."_

It took a bit of tweaking, but finally she had it.

Kit's voice.

"That's it."

There was a wince to Stacy's smile. "There is _one_ teeny, tiny thing, though."

"Yeah." Trent said.

Daria braced herself.

"What is it?"

"Hex is not gonna be, like, able to narrate _as_ Kit and _play_ Kit." Trent said.

"What?"

"It'll get confusing quick for our listeners."

"Because you're nothing if not clear and concise." Jane said.

"We'll need a separate, distinct voice for the narration. Like Josh Radnor and Bob Saget both playing Ted Mosby in _How I Met Your Mother_." Stacy said.

The three of them looked at her blankly.

Stacy sighed. "Of _course_ you three don't do sitcoms."

"We could pull in Josie." Trent said. "She had a pirate radio station when she was in college."

"Thirty years ago." Stacy said. "And she's a bottle of chardonnay and three pack a day and sounds like it."

"Have Daria do it." Jane said.

_"_ _What?"_

The colour was definitely high in Daria's cheeks as the three of them looked at her.

"Hey, yeah, that would be great!" Stacy said. "Your voice, your projection, there's just this _calm_ that comes across that Kit would _definitely_ have with her internal narration."

"No." Daria said immediately.

"Yes." Jane said. "Think about it: who knows Kit Morgan better? You'll be able to stay on top of it and have a front row seat to see the car crash as it unfolds."

"Thanks, Jane. What would I do without your tireless support?"

"That's what I'm here for."

* * *

Centre yourself, deep breath. Hold it. And speak.

_"_ _This is Kit Morgan, journalist reporting for the New York Times._

_It started innocuously enough. Another sporting organisation was embroiled in international turmoil over allegations of bribe-taking, a superstar couple had announced their engagement, terrorism was a many-headed hydra that could not seem to be tamed, and there was a new drug on the party scene that was raking up larger body counts than the far-too-common school shootings._

_All in all, an ordinary, average week of homicides and other various carnage had just begun, but as man, woman, and child had been gradually desensitised over time to the everyday violence all around them, no one really noticed the problem until it was too late._

_Later, looking back, no one could even tell you when it started._

_But all of it led back to the newest party drug, Trepidix._

_Trepidix was named by backyard chemists for the trepidation one faced when one was offered the drug for the first time. Information on the drug was almost non-existent, and the police were not entirely forthcoming what they had. There were rumours, as there always were in these situations, that the police were in fact in business with the dealers._

_It was entirely possible that they were._

_The only person that could have refuted the claims or confirmed for sure was a NYPD detective that I discovered during the course of my research into the drug and its fatalities, a man who became the one who was closest to cracking the distribution line._

_Detective Sam Stone._

_It was too bad that he had been dead for the last three years._

_But maybe if I followed in his footsteps, I would find what he found."_

"How was that?"

"Awesome, Daria. We just need to get the levels up just a _smidge_."

_I can't believe I'm doing this._

"Go again."


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just so everyone knows, in this chapter shit gets real, and this fic gets dark quick.
> 
> I was never sure about this whole direction, but my mother (!) insisted I go with it when she read a draft, because as she pointed out, sometimes things don't go all nice and easy when we grow up. Sometimes it's hard and ugly, we make big mistakes, and really hurt people.

Daria was wearing black trousers, smart green tailored shirt, and a dark jacket. The idea of wearing a skirt had briefly flitted across her mind before she had nixed the idea. She stood outside the restaurant, contemplating on whether she really was going to walk in or not, whether or not she was really going to immerse herself into the same old sordid teenage drama.

This wasn't a date. This was just two old friends having dinner and trying to reconnect.

Stiffening her spine and throwing her shoulders back, Daria pushed into the swanky French restaurant.

The smell of old money hit her in the face the moment she was over the threshold. Daria hadn't seen this many expensive suits saying absolutely nothing since the last presidential debate she had covered. Trophy wives sipped thousand dollar champagne while their menfolk bartered back and forth with giants sums of non-existent money in trade deals that were _absolutely_ _nothing_ _like_ _a_ _pyramid_ _scheme_ , and the cling-ons that these sort of people inevitably attracted likes flies on a turd laughed and nodded and generally sucked up to their societal superiors, hoping some of the shine will rub off on them through association. You could tell the normal people as they were the faceless kitchen staff and waiters scuttling around cleaning and helping like servants in a Dickens novel.

The only thing Daria could see that this place had going for it that she was almost 90% sure that a local mafia don was sitting in the back with his _capo_ sharing spaghetti. Daria felt if she watched for too much longer, it would either end with a shooting or like the meatball scene in _Lady and the Tramp._

If this was the place that Tom commonly hung out, Daria was out. Her personal ethics hadn't eroded _that_ much.

The greeter looked up as she entered, talking her measure from her faithful scuffed boots to her manstopper glasses and straightened with an expression like Daria was about to pull an Uzi from her trench coat and go to work.

"May I help you, ma'am?" _May I help you get as far away from our premises as fast as I possibly can, ma'am? Preferably with the assistance of the authorities?_

"My name is Daria Morgendorffer. I'm supposed to be meeting Tom Sloane at eight."

Ah. The magic words. As soon as Tom's name was past her lips, it was like the greeter became a different person, smiling and fawning and generally oozing all over her. _I knew I should have brought my pepper spray._ "Oh, you're with Tom Sloane's party?" Yes, this lowly peasant girl really _had_ been invited to dine at the Royal Table. Miracles happen every day. "He mentioned that you may come along! Please, let me take your coat. Cherie will take you to the venue room."

_The venue room? Tom Sloane's party?_ "Um, sure."

The greeter checked her coat and a perky pneumatic blonde guided her through the snooty well-to-do to a set of grand doors marked _Venue Room_ in curly calligraphy. She opened the doors grandly and then nodded for Daria to go through.

"Thanks."

Blondie smiled. "You're very welcome. Please enjoy your stay."

Daria frowned after her. _Welcome to the Bates Motel. Please check your sanity with the concierge._

"Daria!"

There he was, His Lordship himself, waving her over to a table. He was in a fancy blue suit this time, hair slicked back, a silk handkerchief in his pocket. He was sitting at a table with a man that Daria recognised as his father, and three other suits. Tom looked genuinely pleased to see her, which was entirely understandable.

The jerk had invited her to a business dinner.

_Chin up, nose up, let's go._

Tom rose and gave her an awkward hug and a kiss on the cheek, like he was paranoid that his dad and work colleagues were somehow judging him on his social interactions. If they were, she was pretty sure he failed. He led her to the table and pulled out a chair for her. "Dad, you remember Daria Morgendorffer."

"Of course. It's been a long time, Daria." Angier Sloane said, shaking her hand. "I hear you've made quite a success of yourself these days."

_Despite your unfortunate circumstance of not being born_ one of us _._

"Daria's a news anchor in New York." Tom said.

"And you've come all the way from New York just to see us tonight?"

Again Tom spoke first. "She's currently taking a sabbatical."

Daria glared. "And I also haven't forgotten how to speak for myself, _Tom_."

_Back the hell off, pal._

"Shot down, Tommy." A large, bearded man with sauce spots on his white shirt grinned at her. "I like a girl that can take down a Sloane."

She arched an eyebrow. "You should see it when I have my elephant gun on me."

Tom's smile looked a little less stiff this time. "Daria, this is Stephen Grace, Kirk Page, and his son, Mark."

"Grace, Sloane and Page." Daria said.

"The very same." Kirk Page said. He was perhaps a little older than Jake, with thinning blonde hair and a narrow face. He looked like an aged-up police composite picture of his son. _Have you seen this man? First reported missing in 1994, this is a mock up of what he would look like now. If you have any information, call Crime Stoppers._ "It's a pleasure, Ms Morgendorffer. I have to say, your broadcast is the one I watch whenever I have business in New York."

_Always good to know._ "Please, call me Daria." She shook his hand, and then his son's. Mark smiled pleasantly, but he had the same _get me the hell out of here_ look that Tom had.

"I won't shake." Stephen Grace said. "I wouldn't want to get your hands all greasy."

"That's why you don't load up on ribs before a business dinner." Angier said archly.

Grace snorted. "The rabbit food they serve here never fills me up." He said. "And makes me fart like a bull. If I get too close to a naked flame I'll blow up."

"Stephen!" Tom was horrified. Disguising a smirk, Daria decided she liked Grace. Among this suited, starched gathering, at least he appeared to be moderately normal, though right now the bar was set incredibly low.

Mark rolled his eyes. "Trying to pretend that you're a distinguished gentleman, Tom? I'm sure Daria knows what type of company you keep."

"Not recently." Daria said. "But I'm open to hearing stories for blackmail purposes later."

His cheeky grin turned his narrow face from something quite plain to something that had quite a lot of character, like the nice polite serial killer that lived next door. Exactly _what_ sort of character, Daria couldn't quite pin down. "We were at Fielding Prep together, so I've got quite a lot saved up."

"Do tell. Is it true what they say about private school boys?"

Mr Grace snorted his whiskey up his nose.

"I like her, Tom." Mark said. "I might have to steal her away."

"'Stealing' implies having." Daria said. "I am currently open to all pitching of the woo."

His smile was mildly suggestive, again with that ambiguous is-he-or-isn't-he edge. "I'll keep that in mind."

"What would you like to drink, Daria?" Tom asked, shooting a glare at Mark.

Daria looked at the wine list. The names were mostly French, a couple were German. She ran her finger down the list. She was her father's daughter. As far as Jake and Daria were concerned, there were two types of wine, red and white.

"How much would I be looked down on if I got a beer?"

The five men looked at her.

"Marry me." Mark said.

Daria looked him up and down.

"I've had better offers."

* * *

It was probably good that Daria was no stranger to the business dinner, otherwise she would have probably shot someone by now. The trick was zoning out to the point that you stopped thinking, but not so far that you would actively become a zombie. She discovered, to her shock, that she actually _liked_ Tom's work colleagues, but there was still a little niggling voice at the back of her head asking exactly why she was asked to this _obvious business meeting,_ wondering exactly what Tom's play was.

The whole night, though the older men seemed oblivious, or were at least _pretending_ obliviousness, there seemed to be an undercurrent of tension between Tom and Mark. Poor little rich boys resenting each other for the sheer hell of it. Daria's journalist head reared, and the Morgendorffer compulsion to poke at it until something interesting happened was a hard thing to resist. The tension bled out of the two men in different ways. As the night wore on, Mark Page's sarcasm grew, his wit becoming more and more biting, deliberately prodding. Tom, meanwhile, never had a drink _not_ in his hand, and was getting louder and more arrogant and drunker.

_Christ. Just kiss and make up, already._

Daria sneaked a look at her watch, wondering when it would be polite to excuse herself, but surprisingly, the next moment Angier, Kirk and Grace excused themselves to go to the bar. At a look from his father, Mark rolled his eyes and followed.

_Yeah, that's not suspicious at_ all _._

Her eyes narrowed. She had the feeling that she had just run into a trap.

"Tom, what the hell's going on?"

Tom finally put down his beer.

"I'm running for mayor."

"Oh."

"At the next election."

"Um, congratulations?"

He looked down at the table gloomily. Daria frowned.

"Or perhaps, commiserations?"

"It's the _Sloane_ thing to do." He took a massive gulp of his beer, face twisted with resentment. _Crap, here it comes._ Yet somehow he swallowed back his bitterness. He looked straight-on at Daria, his eyes clearer than they should have been for a man that had drunk _that_ much. "And the thing is, Daria, it's better for the public image if I'm with someone. Someone who is successful and presentable and intelligent."

It hit her like a truck. _There's the catch._

_Of-fucking-course._

"Now I _know_ you're drunk, because there's no way in hell the Tom Sloane _I_ know would say sober what you just said. Did you set me up?"

"Of course not."

"Try again, sport."

"As far as my dad is concerned, I'm trying to get you back. My father just wants me to get married." He said. "To any girl, he doesn't care. Who elects a single man for mayor?"

Daria frowned. "You're a Sloane, just buy your way in. That's what your family does, isn't it? The traditional way?"

But Tom continued his reasoning, like he was being perfectly logical. "And hearing about the slump you're in with the job made me thought, hey, a business transaction."

"A business transact- I'm _not_ going to be Jackie O to your JFK." She stood. "We all know how _that_ fairytale ended."

"Don't be ridiculous, Dar-"

"I'm seeing someone." She said flatly.

Tom looked puzzled for a moment before his expression turned neutral.

"Daria, I'm not talking about an actual relationship, only something for the cameras."

_Please, Aunt Daria. You worked in TV. You had to know that this was only ever a showbiz marriage._

She stared hard at him. "I don't know you anymore."

"Listen-"

"And I'm wondering if I ever did."

She pulled a handful of notes from her pocket and tossed them on the table, barely resisting the impulse to throw them in his _face_.

"This is for the meal."

She was so full of rage that she almost walked past the coat check girl without retrieving her jacket. Shrugging into her coat, she brushed past tables to the door, not giving a shit about the disapproving looks she was attracting. They could all bite her _entire_ ass.

The greeter smiled at her, but Daria must have had an ugly expression on her face that said she was going to walk through him if he got in the way, because he vanished in seconds, though she was aware of eyes peering out at her. She marched out on the street. Daria hadn't felt this sort of righteous anger in _years_. It burned red-hot through her and made her fists clench. She needed to talk to Jane.

Coming back to Lawndale was a mistake.

A huge _fucking_ mistake.

"Daria!" Tom had followed her, losing his footing and stumbling against the doorframe as he did. She icily noted that there was nothing there for him to trip over. "Wait!"

"Leave me alone, Tom. Go crawl back into your bottle."

He grabbed her arm.

"Let me go." Daria hissed, her other hand balling over her keys, reading herself to stab them into his face if need be. "You're drunk."

He released her arm, blinking. "Daria, I'm sorry. I didn't think you'd react like this."

"Like what? How exactly did you expect me to react when you asked me to prostitute myself for your political career?"

"Prostitute-? No! It's just a logical business arrangement."

The drinking. The pure egotism. _What the hell had happened to Tom Sloane to turn him into this drunken maniac?_

"Leave me alone before I take out a _logical_ AVO."

"Daria-"

"Take my advice, and lay off the booze."

His face seemed to morph then, into the unduly angry reaction of the habitual drunk. He absolutely _reeked_ of alcohol, to the point that she wondered how she had missed it. The only thing she could think of was that she had _wanted_ to miss it, wanted to gloss over the fact that everything wasn't what it used to be, that her life had managed to shift this drastically. Daria took a protective step back, still facing him, actually starting to feel a little scared. This sort of situation never ended well on CSI.

"There she is, the sanctimonious little brat I know." Tom growled.

"Only _you_ would use words like 'sanctimonious' when you're trashed." She sneered.

"Come on, Daria, like you're so fucking precious, I know you would have steamrolled people to get the job you wanted, to get what _you_ wanted-"

"Get the _hell_ away from me."

"-the ice queen standing there and passing judgement on everyone else for not living up to _her_ standards even though she's not any better than the rest of them, _knows_ she's not any better than the rest of them-"

The fear and the fury were battling it out inside her as Daria wondered whether _this_ was what Tom wanted to say to her for years, but was too inhibited to tell her.

"Well, what would you know about any sort of personal standards, you cunt?" She flared immediately.

As a rule Daria didn't use the c-word lightly, but she was pretty sure that God and feminism would forgive her in this instance. _That_ word coming out of _her_ mouth caused Tom to pause. Not taking her eyes off him for even a second, she dug out her phone and dialled, before the idiot got a second wind.

The call connected after only a couple of rings. " _Yeah_?" He sounded tired. It was one in the morning and he would have only just walked out of the station.

"Trent, I need you to come and pick me up from La Rennard."

He must have heard her voice quaver because his own voice immediately sharpened.

_"_ _Are you okay?"_

"I need you to come and get me _now_."

_"_ _I'm coming. Keep your cell on. Do_ not _hang up."_

Daria was just staring at Tom, the cell to her ear. "Okay."

Tom was openly glaring at her now, with a disgusted look on his face.

"Trent _Lane_?" He exclaimed. "You're seeing _him_? Are you freaking _kidding_ me?"

"He's been my friend for a long time."

He shook his head. "And here I was thinking you'd make a better choice than picking a farmer who gets paid not to grow anything."

"He's a successful self-made businessman, you snotty, drunk bastard." Daria snarled.

Tom threw his arms out wide, the booze lubricating that subconscious part where all the dirty little secrets were usually tightly locked up.

"He wouldn't be _anything_ if it wasn't for me!"

A cold finger of sudden understanding slipped down her spine.

"What did you say?" Her eyes widened and her teeth clenched. _"What did you say?"_

The doors of La Rennard slammed open, and Angier thundered out onto the street, followed closely by Mark. Angier took one look between the two of them and then down at the bottle still clutched in Tom's hand.

"What the hell do you think you're doing, boy?" He asked icily. "You're going to be _President_ , you little drunk bastard."

Tom just glared at his father sullenly, like he was suddenly a sixteen-year-old boy again.

"Angier! Priorities!" Mark approached Daria, hands held upright like he was approaching a spooked animal. "Daria, we'll get you home."

"A friend is coming." She said stiffly, still clutching the phone, backing away but making sure she had all three men in her line of sight, still prepared to gouge and slice if she needed to.

"Daria, please-"

"You all stay the _hell_ away from me!"

" _Daria_!"

_Oh, thank God._

Trent's car screeched to an angle at the curb as he bounded out, face cold and prepared for a fight. As he saw the Sloanes, if possible, his face became even colder. He immediately wrapped his arms around her and Daria melted into him, pressing her nose into his jacket, her glasses digging into the bridge of her nose, hands clutching at the worn leather.

"Mr Lane." Mark said stiffly.

"Mr Page." Trent replied just as coldly. His attention switched back to Daria and a hand stroked through her hair comfortingly. "Come on, babe, let's get out of here."

She just nodded, barely registering what he had called her.

Trent locked them both into his car, and it was only when they were speeding out of the rich part of town that Daria felt herself begin to relax.

"God." She slowly let out the breath she had been holding. She expected to feel unsafe in New York, where people were killed every other day and you could always hear sirens somewhere. That was a given. But Lawndale was something else. Nothing happened in Lawndale. Lawndale was backward. Lawndale was boring. Lawndale was _safe._ "Jesus Christ."

Trent reached across the seat and took her hand. She realised with a jolt that he was shaking too. "You're fine. You're okay. Big breaths."

"Tom _scared_ me, Trent."

"He's a drunk, entitled little mongrel. I don't know if he even _knows_ he has a problem. His daddy wants him to be President." There was scorn in his voice that Daria had never heard from him before.

Daria closed her eyes.

"It was Tom." She said. " _Tom_ was the one that ran into you."

Trent kept his eyes forward, watching the road. For a long moment Daria thought he wasn't going to speak, and she gripped his scarred hand tighter.

"He was plastered, or high. Maybe both." He said finally. "There was some graduation party, with, like, a bunch of his asshole pals. For a laugh or something they decided to jack a truck, blew through a red light, and _bam_. There were no cameras on that intersection, and coz all his little minions gave different stories on who was driving, and I was pretty sure I was hallucinating, the police never charged anyone. They couldn't arrest _all_ the kids. They were cautioned, fined, and sent on their way. The little bastard was so wasted he doesn't really even _remember_ if he was the one behind the wheel or not _._ "

_He wouldn't be_ anything _if it wasn't for me!_

That was all the confirmation she needed.

"It was Tom."

Trent heaved a sigh like he was suddenly a hundred years old. "Since the Sloanes footed the bill, I'm pretty sure."

Daria's throat was dry and her eyes hurt. "They paid out."

"It was only when I looked at it later that I realised that the Lane hospital insurance would have only covered me for a couple of weeks max, and not for all the corrective surgery." He said quietly. "I did the nosing around thing, found Angier Sloane's signature on a paid-up invoice for my rehab."

She rubbed at her forehead. "I can't _believe_ this shit."

"I said a few days ago that it'd bring the mood down."

"Jane doesn't know."

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because Janey would go after Sloane with a crowbar. You know she would."

She would. In an instant.

"And I'm not entirely sure I'd want to talk her down." He confessed quietly, disappointed with himself.

"You could destroy the Sloanes."

"It was eleven, almost twelve years ago, Daria. It doesn't matter anymore."

_Yes it did_. She could see it in every tense muscle in his body, the dark glower on his face. _Yes it does._

"I don't want to be a grown-up anymore." She said, as much to herself as to anyone else. "Stop the world, I want to get off. "

He chuckled. "Sorry, kid. The world don't stop for no one."


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another dark-ish chapter. May potentially be OOC, but since there's a panic attack involved, maybe not. No one's themselves during a panic attack.

The doors of the lift opened, and Daria and Trent stepped out onto the landing, hands clasped tightly. Her pounding heart had finally calmed, but she didn't want to let go of him, not quite yet. She was aware that her sudden clinginess was a result of the situation at hand, an evolutionary quirk of the species that would hopefully fade by the morning. Even when the human race was living in caves and clubbing each other over the head, they naturally grouped together during periods of turmoil and upheaval.

No one was an island.

No words were exchanged as Trent let them into his apartment and Daria went about making them both a mug of hot chocolate, falling back on a coping method she'd thought she'd jettisoned when she was still in single digits. She passed his mug across the counter in time to see Trent pop two painkillers out of their foil packet and swallowed them dry before taking a sip.

_Oh._

Daria reached across the counter, placing her hand flat against his bristly cheek. Trent's hand rose to cover hers.

They sat like that for a while before parting.

Daria didn't sleep that night. She couldn't. At seven that morning, probably after he had a few hours to sober up, Tom started calling her cell, leaving long rambling apologies when she didn't answer.

Half an hour later she blocked his number.

"You're popular today." Jane frowned. "Who is it?"

"Just some ass."

Daria glanced toward Trent's door. She remembered standing in the doorway the night before and watching as he strapped his hands firmly into special splints that reinforced his wrists, and hearing him pacing for a long time after they both said goodnight, wondering what shadows were flitting through his mind and wishing she could alleviate them. She wished so badly that there was something she could do, that somehow Daria could _help._ Out of all the people in the world, why him? What could Trent have possibly done that made God decide that he deserved this kind of punishment?

It wasn't fair.

"Is everything okay?" Of course her best friend didn't miss the look. Jane was staring at her, her eyes narrowed. "Did something happen last night?"

"Just the typical murder and mayhem, you know how it is on date night."

"You're acting extra weird today."

_How can you tell?_ Daria sighed.

"Trent had to rescue me from my dinner with Tom."

She blinked. "Um, what?"

"Tom's running for mayor. He asked me to marry him so he could look like an involved family man and thus ensnare the wills of more gullible voters."

Jane laughed. "You're kidding."

Daria didn't say anything and Jane's laughter trailed off.

"You're _not_ kidding."

_You have no idea how much I wish I was._ "I'm afraid the metamorphosis is complete and Tom has been absorbed into the conglomerate that is known as Rich Entitled Dickhead."

"Damn. He was one of the good ones."

_Yes, he was._

"What did you say?"

Daria gave her a flat look.

"Well, after I swooned into his arms-"

"Okay, dumb question."

"Look, I think I'm going to go for a walk." Daria said.

"I'll walk with you."

"No, it's fine. I just need to get out into the fresh air, clear my head, all that crap."

"Okay."

Daria could feel Jane's eyes on her all the way to the door.

* * *

She didn't realise where her feet were taking her until she looked up and realised she was standing in front of the steel-and-chrome state-of-the-art Lawndale Public Library. Staring hard at the doors, a thought slowly occurred to her, solidifying like ice.

She marched through the doors.

The facility was three stories tall, and Daria looked up at the catwalks that arched above her head. Maybe she was just being cynical, but surely there weren't that many people in Lawndale who actually _read_. Hell, or actually _could_ read. Looking around, she was the only one in the immediate building under fifty.

There was a librarian stacking shelves not far from her, ID badge around her neck and pince-nez perched on the end of her nose.

"Um, hi. Do you have a newspaper archive?"

The librarian, Bernice, took Daria down to the basement.

"Holy _hell_."

The walls were lined with heavy steel shelves filled with rows and rows of achieve boxes. There were labels on the shelves notating what particular newspaper was contained within, and each box was marked with a decade.

"Do you have the Ark of the Covenant in here too?"

Maybe this would be harder than she thought.

"Don't get too intimidated." The librarian said, pointing down one of the isles toward the desk sitting there, and the Microfiche slide reader on top.

_Thank God._

"Local papers?"

"Yes." Daria said. "I'm looking for something that would have happened in 2006."

Bernice showed her where they stored their Microfiche slides and gave Daria a brief lesson on how to use the reader. When Daria had first made reporter, she had spent a lot of her time back in the archives doing this sort of thing, but it had been a long time now since she had done this. She thanked Bernice and the librarian left her at it. Daria fetched the 2006 folios of the Lawndale Sun-Herald from a few weeks before Jane had gone missing from finals at BFAC.

She was almost entirely through the slides when she spotted it, a story on page three. It was halfway down the page, in medium print, not particularly attention-grabbing, but not particularly noticeable by being obviously non-descript. Absolutely average. Someone had wanted to make sure that the story would slip by as unnoticed as possible.

_Road Accident on Highway_

_Residents along the M3 to Mirage were woken abruptly this morning when a pickup truck ran a red light and impacted with a Plymouth Satellite that was heading in the opposite direction back into Lawndale. Witnesses told police that the pickup truck was speeding at irregular intervals and weaving across the road before hitting the Plymouth, which had been slowing for the lights._

_'_ _All these kids just piled out of the truck,' a witness was quoted as saying. 'All the girls were screaming their heads off, and the guys were just milling around. A couple of the young fellas went over to check on the driver of the Plymouth and started screaming to call 911. They stayed until the ambulance got there.'_

_There were no fatalities, but the driver of the Satellite was extracted after 45 minutes and flown to Lawndale Medical Centre, where he is currently listed in a critical condition._

_The pickup was stolen from a driveway just inside the Lawndale county line and police believe alcohol to be a contributing factor._

Daria sat back in the swivel chair.

... _the driver of the Satellite was_ extracted _after 45 minutes_...

That one sentence told Daria pretty much everything she needed to know. She massaged her temples, glasses slipping down her nose. No names, no mentions of exactly how wasted everyone was, a nice and sanitised story. Saying everything and nothing at once, neat and non-judgemental. Deliberately so. Daria had been a journalist as long time now and knew how to tell when a report had been doctored to hold back incriminating information. And baby, did this thing have somebody's grubby suppressing fingerprints all over it. She pushed her glasses back up her nose and noticed the asterisk on the story.

_* Editorial pg. 12_

Twiddling the knobs of the Microfiche reader and expertly flipping in and out the little slides, Daria found the editorial page and started reading the little column. What she saw made her flip out her little notepad and start taking notes.

_Angry Dave: Poor Little Rich Kids Terrorise Town_

_And so it's happened again, entitled little mongrels running rampant through Lawndale causing bedlam. Only this time, unlike the drug-fuelled rampage in Hometown Gardens, where the only casualty were a few gladiolas and the park's play equipment, there was a very real human victim of the chaos._

_Late last night Harry Gregory of Inglis Close noticed that his pickup had been stolen from his driveway, and barely hours later, in the early hours of this morning, that same pickup was involved in a deadly collision heading out of Lawndale and toward the township of Mirage, running a red light and smashing into a Plymouth Satellite that had been slowly accelerating for a green light, owned by Lawndale musician Trent Lane, singer and lead guitarist of the local grunge band Mystik Spiral._

_Witnesses confirmed that Thomas Sloane and Mark Page, scions of local businessmen Angier Sloane and Kirk Page respectively, exited the front of the vehicle and argued before seeing to Mr Lane and dialling for an ambulance. Earlier that night they and their other companions had been at a graduation party, and a police officer informant confirmed that both were intoxicated and perhaps under the influence of other substances._

_Mr Lane was flown to Lawndale Medical Centre, with head injuries, broken ribs and a collapsed lung, and at last contact was listed as critical. None of his family could be reached for comment._

_Now the crunch comes. Will their parents allow an investigation to begin into this reckless behaviour exhibited, or will they simply buy their children's way out of the consequences as they have always done? If Mr Lane survives, will these poor little rich kids finally be brought to account? If he dies, will murder charges be laid against the spoilt brats who have decided to cause mayhem for the hell of it?_

_Not to dismiss the severity of the situation, especially concerning Mr Lane, but what is at the root of this problem? What has caused this mayhem? Is it simply having money and no boundaries? Having the ability to bribe your way out of any problem? Does money inure you against the real world and all criticism, allowing you to be as hedonistic as you want?_

_And with the fate of Mr Lane hanging in the balance, will this tragic accident wake up any of these preppy blue-blood trust fund babies and make them understand that their rebel antics has real-world impacts on those around them?_

The piece was biting and sardonic, sharp and angry and heavily judgemental of the actions of the well-to-do and how they were punished by the authorities when and if they were finally brought to account, as versus what the consequences would be if the average-joe broke the very same laws. Daria scanned the rest of the column, which outlined the other adventures of the trust fund babies and the amazing coincidental ways that witnesses withdrew their statements and damning evidence was 'lost'. As a journalist, she had covered more than her share of stories on fallen corrupt politicians and other public figures, and if only a fraction of this angry reporter was saying was true, the volume of crap these entitled rich kids were getting away with was truly startling.

At the bottom, the column donated Angry Dave as _DA Sorenson._ Daria wrote the name down in her notepads and underlined the name. _Angry Dave, you have answers I want._ Oh a whim, Daria pulled down the next month of slides, scanning the editorial pages on each day's edition.

"Crap."

After the column so obviously denouncing the antics of Lawndale's rich, and the way they disciplined their children in particular, there were no more Angry Dave columns.

"Dammit."

Daria had seen the same thing before, when she worked in print. A small newspaper, hating that they were being backed into the corner, allowed their editorial writers a little extra license to say the things everyone else was thinking but no one had the balls to say aloud. If called on it, ultimately the paper would attempt to stand by their reporter, but in the end would be given the choice of either sacking that journalist or having the newspaper entirely destroyed. Faced with such a choice, many journalists chose to walk instead of destroying the one thing they had cherished so much, and kicking their friends and colleagues out penniless into the night.

It was a dog-eat-dog world.

On the desk her cell started ringing and jangling, doing a jig on the chrome. Daria reached out to halt its feeble attempt to escape and looked at the screen which was filled with a picture of Jane flashing devil's horns at the camera in a gangsta pose while dressed as Marilyn Monroe. It made sense at the time.

"Morgendorffer."

_"_ _I_ know _I come up on your caller ID, you_ really _don't have to answer the phone like you're expecting a call from the cops."_

The corner of Daria's mouth twitched in a smile. "God, you bitch, what do you want now?"

_"_ _That's the spirit."_ There was a smile in Jane's voice. _"Hex is coming over to drive Trent to the station in the Zeemobile, leaving us the mafia staff car."_

"Uh huh." Daria said. "Why is he leaving us the mafia staff car? Why are we calling it the mafia staff car now? And what the hell is the Zeemobile?"

_"_ _First thing's first, amiga. Big bro wants to know if we want to come around to 1984, so he can put us on the list."_

It took Daria a moment to realise what Jane was talking about. _1984_ was the name of the nightclub he and Stacy would be broadcasting from that night. It seemed an odd choice for a name, but to each his own. As long as there were no rats.

"Hell, why not. It's not like Big Brother _isn't_ watching us every other second of the day."

_"_ _Cool."_ Jane said. _"I'll catch him before he leaves. He says they'll be out of there by eleven, so they'll be at the station in time to do your play."_

The nagging anxiety was back. "Sure."

_"_ _Get your butt back over here by seven so we can get ready."_

"What, so we can paint our nails and fix our hair? It's a _nightclub,_ everyone will be too high to notice our clothes. Unless we're not wearing any. But then, that's supposed to be a fashion statement these days."

_"_ _Now there's an idea."_ Jane said. _"Okay, wrong words. How about, put a game plan together, figure out how to storm the beaches."_

"Behind you all the way, General Eisenhower. Directly behind you."

Jane laughed. _"Catch you, amiga."_

* * *

She was in a black t-shirt, black jeans and her ol' faithful combat boots.

Jane just looked at her. "Resting Bitch Face Engaged."

"What?"

"Come on, Daria. You look like a roadie." Jane said. "You're going to a nightclub, live a little. You're going to stand out like a sore thumb."

"Jane, I could dress like _Quinn_ and I can guarantee I'd still stand out. Because I'm _thirty-four_ and going to a _nightclub_ which is the natural habitat of the Desperate Single Male, the Crack Whore and the Toilet Quickie."

"And I'm sure they have that on their business card."

_1984_ had only opened maybe half an hour before. Jane parked the car and the two stepped out onto the street, Jane passing the keys to Daria for safekeeping. Daria tucked them safely into her pocket. Neon light was blinding. Casinos spat out the broke while drawing in the gullible, like moths to a flame. It was like someone had lifted up a street from Reno and dropped it here in Lawndale.

That was when she spotted it.

" _That's_ the Zeemobile?"

It was a dual-cab truck, painted in a zebra-stripe style with white, acid green, and neon purple. _Z93_ was painted on the sides in red. Daria stared at the monstrosity. "Well, at least you'd never miss them coming."

"No matter how hard you tried."

While people bitched and moaned as they cut the line, Jane marched up to the doorman, a huge bear who was standing in the regulation position, with his feet shoulder-width apart and his hands clasped in front of his junk. "Jane Lane and Daria Morgendorffer. We're here with Mystik and Hex."

From inside his jacket the man-mountain withdrew a mini tablet and scrolled to their names. "Right. Mystik and Hex are waiting for you. They'll be up the top."

_Up the top?_

He unlinked the velvet rope and the two of them were in.

No one in the room beyond looked over 25.

"I feel about a million years old."

"I _knew_ I shouldn't have worn pants."

Daria spotted a flash of familiar blue-streaked hair. There was a booth on stage, the speakers booming out a set playlist while the club's DJ spoke animatedly to Trent and Stacy, who had set up a microphone, transmitter, and portable mixing table in the wings. Daria nudged Jane's arm and pointed, and the two of them made their way across the floor, Daria using her elbows and feet to knock through the crowd like any good New Yorker.

Trent was standing talking to an older man in a purple pimp suit. There were loops of gold chains around the man's neck and he looked like he was wearing a toupee on his chest. Trent, meanwhile, looked as understated as ever in grey jeans and a dark shirt, a light sheen of sweat across his forehead.

"Hey, brother mine!"

Trent turned to the two of them and smiled as Jane walked up and lightly thumped him on the shoulder. "Gerry, this is my sister, Jane. And this is Daria."

"As ever, my pleasure, ladies." Gerry beamed at them. He reminded Daria of a used car salesman. She half expected him to ask her if she was interested in a half-price Beemer. Out of the corner of her eye she spotted Trent wipe his forehead and pinch the bridge of his nose like he had a headache. Well, any sane person would, with the thumping bass and crush of sweaty bodies. "Well, I better let you kids get back to it. The exposure from Z93 has packed us tonight!"

There was something in Trent's smile that seemed a little wobbly. "Sure, man."

Jane was looking over the writhing mass of deviant humanity with an artist's eye. "Dammit, I knew I should have brought my sketchpad."

"It's like the contemporary decadence of Rome." Daria said.

Jane looked at her like Daria had just asked her if she wanted two million dollars for free, and then her face crumpled as she realised there was no way to record the degeneration of humanity for posterity. "Ah, _man_."

"Ask Hex." Trent said. "She always carries ink and paper in case she gets, y'know, struck by inspiration for her scrapbooking."

Jane's brows rose. "Of _course_ she scrapbooks."

"Well, not everyone has the fates align to be born naturally as cool and alternative as _me_."

She smiled as her own words were thrown back at her. "You're so full of crap." But even as she said it, Jane was on the move to where Stacy was sitting in front of the mixing board, two love-struck twenty-somethings fawning over her with love-hearts in their eyes.

Daria and Trent both watched her go.

"Are you okay? You're looking a little... sick."

"Yeah." Trent sighed, running a hand back through his hair. "I think I'm coming down with a cold, or whatever."

"Um, maybe you should just go home and go to bed."

"It's cool, Daria. I've lived through worse."

True, definitely true, but-

"Yeah, but all this charging about and being a hero can't be good for a man your advanced age."

He coughed a laugh at that, and Daria's heart warmed a little.

"Go grab a drink for yourself. It's nightclub prices, so ask for Joe and tell him to put it on the Z93 tab for Trent."

"Sure."

"And you're back with Hex and Mystik at _Zeee Nineteee Threee_." Stacy hollered into the microphone over the music. "Broadcasting _live_ from the most _happening_ place in town-"

She held out the microphone toward the crowd of dancers.

_"_ _1984!"_

"The newest nightclub in Lawndale, _1984_ caters to the strange and the exotic, and is it the best place to be tonight?"

_"_ _Yes!"_

"Are people missing out on something, do you think?"

" _Yes_!"

"You heard that, folks! Coming up next, our very own Mystik himself is going to spin us some tunes. Get down to _1984_ and get _downnn_!"

_Kill me now_. As Trent climbed up to the DJ booth, Daria mimed putting a gun beneath her chin and pulling the trigger. He shot her a smile as he took the club DJ's place.

A deep thumping bass started, and Daria shook her head, the bass messing with her balance. The track started with an electric guitar riff, and Trent expertly spun the disks with a screech. Daria winced, but the clubbers went mental, screaming and whooping.

And everything went crazy.

It was about halfway through the third track that Daria began to notice that there might be something horribly wrong. Trent missed a couple of beats, sweat dripping into his eyes. His face was drawn and pale and with a shaking arm he reached up to mop his forehead.

And that was when the laser lights below the stage switched on, powerful white spotlights, and Trent flinched back.

_He flinched back._

He indicated the club DJ to take over, stepping down from the booth, eyes everywhere except the crush of people around him, fist to his mouth and throat working like he was swallowing back vomit. He walked off the stage unsteadily, catching hold of a wall scone to keep himself upright.

"And it's _Mystikkk_!" Hex was still in character, but was frowning across the stage at him. She half-rose from her chair and he shook his head at her before making a break for the side entrance.

Daria stared around herself, unable to see Jane anywhere, and then she began elbowing her way through the crush to where Trent had suddenly disappeared. She pushed her way through the emergency exit into the dark alley beyond, filled with trash and dumpsters.

The sound of dry retching reached her ears.

Trent was standing bent double, his hands gripping his knees. After a moment he rose and wiped his mouth, leaning his forehead against the grimy brick wall, breathing heavily.

_Maybe he really_ is _sick._

"Trent?"

He jerked at the sound of her voice, looking at her with wide eyes.

They were red-rimmed, and tear tracks had cut through the grime on his cheeks.

Daria froze.

He looked away the instant he realised she's seen his face. "Just needed a breather, Daria. Just a bit too much all at once, the – the noise, and the lights, and, and-" Trent may have been many things, but he had never stammered. His voice was lower and huskier than it normally was.

Realisation hit. Daria had interviewed trauma victims before.

- _the noise and the lights-_

God.

Trent was flashing back to the crash.

"Tell Hex I'll be back in a sec."

_I have to get him out of here._

"No." Time started again. "You're _not_ going back in there." Daria ran her hand soothingly up and down his back, feeling the shudders wracking his body. "You _can't_ go back in there. I'm taking you home."

He didn't brush her off or say something asinine, which tipped her off to the dark place he was currently caught in. A hand around his waist, Daria guided him back toward where the car was parked, pulling out the keys. Trent flinched as they were bathed in the glare from the streetlights, screwing his eyes shut. " 'M sorry." He said hoarsely. " 'S hasn't happened in a while, thought I was over it."

Something had triggered him, triggered Trent's memories of that night almost twelve years ago.

_The screech of the vinyl, the glare of the lights, the claustrophobic crush of bodies-_

And rescuing Daria from the clutches of Tom Sloane, the man who had escaped justice after crashing into him, was the cherry on top of the shit sundae. That had started everything.

_I've done this._

I've _done this._

She bundled him into the passenger's seat like Trent himself had done the night before. Trent's shivers had transformed into full-blown tremors and his face was a wasted grey colour, his skin cold. Daria put the car into drive, dialling Jane and putting her cell on speaker as she pulled away from the curb.

_"_ _Where the hell are you?"_ Jane demanded when she finally answered. _"Where the hell is_ Trent _? Everyone's talking."_

"He's with me."

_"_ _Daria!"_ There was a joyful mirth in her voice. Although she didn't know, couldn't have known, Daria found herself getting annoyed with her best friend.

"Jane! He's really sick. I'm taking him home now, and putting him to bed."

All frivolity fell away. _"Is he okay?"_

She glanced at Trent from the corner of her eye. He didn't appear to be listening in the slightest, staring vacantly out at the scenery flashing by.

"I don't know." Daria said honestly.

_"_ _Oh, God."_ She could hear the fear in her friend's voice. After all, Trent was in essence the only family Jane really had.

"Please, get Stacy to cover. We won't be doing the play tonight."

_"_ _I'll – I'll tell her. Look after my brother."_

* * *

"Sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry for." Daria turned down his bed while Trent wrested unsteadily with his boots. After an interminable moment Daria pushed him down onto the bed and did it herself while he flushed with embarrassment. She pushed him back into the pillows and tucked the blankets around his shaking form. "And if you keep saying it I'm going to slap you."

He smiled a little at that.

Daria put her hand flat on his forehead. He was so _cold._ And a pasty grey colour. Like all the life and colour had bled out of him. He squirmed away from her, uncomfortable at the attention. Lanes didn't fuss, they just got on with it.

"I'll be fine, Daria, I just got dizzy for a moment. You should get back to the club."

"Are you trying to get rid of me? I'm hurt, in the dark and shrivelled place where the special feelings live."

Good. A little smile.

"Have you ever talked to someone about this?" She asked quietly.

"I'm _fine_."

"You are not _fine._ "

The dark look wasn't as scary as it would have been since he was scowling at her from the pillows.

"Trent, that was- did you ever think that just maybe you're suffering from PTSD?"

"Come _on_ , Daria."

"It's not just for returned servicemen. You suffered a major trauma-"

"Daria, please-"

"-and if you didn't treat it properly at the time-"

"Christ, Daria-"

"You're so busy being strong for everyone else that you've forgotten to be strong for yourself!" She snapped.

He flushed and looked away.

"Please tell me you've talked to someone about this."

_I'm not pleading. I'm not._

Trent closed his eyes, scowling. "What, some shrink that's in the Sloane's pocket and hands them a report after each session?"

"Not everyone is in bed with the Sloanes."

His tough-guy mask slipped for a moment as he looked at her with wide eyes that made her heart clench. "Enough of them are." He said quietly. Trent raised a hand to his eyes and rolled away from her, trembling as he tried to contain the emotion bubbling out of him, angry at himself for not being able to control his own reactions.

"I'm sick of this." His voice was muffled by the comforter. "Being broken."

"Oh, honey." The epithet was out before Daria could stop it. "You're not broken."

Trent seemed to curl in tighter on himself, and all she could think of was how _wrong_ this whole situation was. Trent Lane played shit songs in front of hundreds of people with no shame. Trent Lane moseyed through life with a casual 'yeah' and a 'whatever'. Trent Lane didn't get upset, or annoyed, or hysterical.

He didn't _have_ an exposed underbelly.

Daria sat on the side of his bed as he wiped his eyes with the comforter, her hand resting gently on his arm, soothingly rubbing up and down.

"Trent, you're brave and loyal and – okay, your smarts kind of work on a different track compared to the rest of us, but that doesn't make them any less valid-"

He snorted at that.

Daria smiled. "You're understanding, and just so _good_ it almost makes me physically ill. You look after Jane, you look after Lex, and, hell, even after my _parents_ and idiot _sister._ I don't know anyone who could put other people in front of themselves so readily." _I know I couldn't._ "You literally had nothing, and you made yourself a _life_ from it. There's no way I could do that.

"As for broken? There's no way I could ever see you as broken. You're the most amazing man I've ever known, and please don't tell my dad I said that or he'll get all huffy."

He gave a watery chuckle.

"Do you know why me and Jane and the rest of the family don't go to reunions anymore?"

Daria bit her lip. She remembered, about four years ago now, Jane slamming into Daria's apartment in a rage, saying that she was _done_ being a Lane, that she was _done_ with pandering to those sycophants, that they could burn in hell for all eternity, that it was good that Vincent and Summer had hustled her out of there because she was going to string up their cousin. Daria had asked what had happened, and Jane had just sneered.

"Lack of interest?" She asked weakly.

"Close enough." He said. "A cousin was talking to one of the uncles, and, y'know, said Trent and Jane were supposed to be coming straight from work. Our uncle asked which Lane boy Trent was again and Winter Lane just said, _oh, you know, he's the crippled one_."

Daria closed her eyes for a moment. While she would never think of him that way, she couldn't deny that it was effectively what Trent _was_ after the crash _._ He couldn't play the guitar without cramps and pain, and the carefully hidden stash of pain meds and sleeping pills she had found that morning made her wonder despairingly how bad it really was. She wondered how long it had taken before he could bring himself to get behind the wheel of a car again.

She sighed as Trent sat up against the headboard, still in his blanket cocoon. His shivers had finally lessened to the point of only the occasional tremor wracking his body. Trent pulled his legs to his chest and wrapped his arms around them, burying his face in his knees. Daria had enough experience that she knew a defensive ball when she saw one.

"Listen." Daria finally said. "I can say all the right platitudes and argue with you about this until we're old and grey-"

Hidden behind his arm, she spotted the corner of his mouth twitch in a smile.

"-grey _er_ , but none of it will matter if _you_ believe the things they say. If _you_ think of _yourself_ as the crippled one, you might as well chuck it all in now."

There was a long moment of silence, and Daria wished he'd just _understand_ , just _get it_ the way he used to. Why did everything have to change so drastically? Everything just _imploding_ on itself in a second.

Being an adult _sucked_.

Trent sighed. "Falling apart like this must be a really attractive look." He sniffed.

"If it's any consolation, I don't think anyone else noticed your freakout. And I doubt you'd be the first, nor the _last_ , to puke behind that club. If anything, you gave it a proper Lawndale christening."

"Thanks for getting me out of there, Daria."

"You're welcome." _You're welcome? Come on, girl._ "Listen, I - you're really important. To me."

He looked up at her through his fingers, with uncomprehending bloodshot eyes. Daria suddenly felt self-conscious.

"None of this changes who you are fundamentally. You're still kind and decent and caring and definitely a bit offbeat, but that's neither here nor there." Daria gave a small smile. "And you've already seen me at my worst over the years, so, all in all, this feels like a fair exchange."

He laughed, and before Daria could talk herself out of it, she bundled Trent up in her arms tightly, trying to convey in her touch all the things she was feeling but couldn't bring herself to say out loud, not quite yet. He buried his face in her neck, and after a moment his laughs turned into wracking sobs. Daria ran her fingers through his hair, letting Trent cry himself out.

And all the while there was only one thought going through her head.

_I can't let this keep happening._


	12. Chapter 12

It wasn't long after that that Jane burst in, her face set but her eyes frantic.

"Where's Trent?" She demanded. "How is he? How bad is it? Do we need to take him to the hospital?"

"He's fine. He's sleeping. Keep it down." Daria flapped a hand at her to get her to calm the hell down. "I'm sorry I didn't wait for you, but he was puking behind the club-"

"Did he eat something? God, if someone put something in his _drink_ , I'll _kill_ them-"

"Jane!"

Daria put the cup of tea she had just made in front of her friend.

"Drink that."

"Why? Did you put sedatives in it?"

"Just a couple of horse tranquilisers, nothing to worry about."

Jane laughed a little and took a sip.

Daria sat opposite her over the kitchen counter.

"He had a flashback."

Jane blinked at her, uncomprehending.

"And I think _I_ was the one that set it all off, with the, with the Tom thing."

"C'mon, how could you have possibly-?"

"It was a trigger. _The_ trigger." Daria said, partly to herself. "And then tonight, with the noise, and the people, and the lights, suddenly he was back at the crash."

Jane paled. "How do you know about-"

"Trent told me." Daria said. "Why didn't you?"

Jane's shoulders slumped in a way that was reminiscent of her brother as she wilted down.

"I just... I guess telling you would have been like admitting to myself that... it was real."

Trent was right. A _lot_ of denial went into being a Lane.

Daria sighed.

"Look, never mind me, I'm just being vindictive."

"You? Vindictive? _Never_."

Daria waved away her words. "He had a panic attack, and from what he said, I think it's happened before. I think you need to get him to talk to someone, like a psychiatrist or a therapist or something."

"But-"

"No buts. He's sick, Jane."

"How dare you-"

"That's _not_ an insult, and you know that, you moron."

Jane was staring at her. After a long moment she crumpled, head in her hands. "I'm sorry, Daria. I never meant to dump any of this on you."

"Hey, that's what friends are for, right?" She thumped her shoulder over the counter. "But it's time things changed."

"You have a plan?"

* * *

There had been nine people with the name _D Sorenson_ in the Lawndale phonebook. Normally with that few names Daria would simply phone each number, or show up unannounced on the doorstep to startle a reaction, but since D Sorenson was a reporter, chances are he knew all the investigative journalists' tricks and would deny any involvement whatsoever.

And there was always the chance that he cut his losses and ran.

Okay, plan B.

_I'm coming to find you, Angry Dave._

Daria stood at the steps leading up to the 1920s building that housed the _Lawndale Sun-Herald_. She was in her black suit again, her hair pulled back in a _serious-businesswoman_ bun. Her laptop bag was slung over her shoulder. In one hand Daria held a folio with Angry Dave's work and the research she had compiled on the crash thus far. In the other she held her _Press_ badge from her network.

She clipped her badge to her jacket and marched into the office.

The receptionist jumped as Daria strode briskly into the office, dropping the tablet he had been perusing. His fresh face and miss-knotted tie screamed _Baby's First Job._ Good. That made things easier.

"Good morning, my name is Daria Morgendorffer and I'm a reporter from NNYK in New York. I was hoping I could have a word with Neil Blackwood."

The Blackwoods were one of the first families in Lawndale. They were worthy of a news story themselves, as the first Blackwood family patriarch was a highwayman and his wife had been an English lady that had run away to become a cowboy. Instead of hoarding their gold, the family sprinkled it liberally around town, building homes and stores and roads. The families like the Sloanes may have believed they owned Lawndale, but it was the Blackwoods that built it.

The local rag had gone through many facelifts over the years, but had always been owned by the same family.

"Do you have an appointment?"

"I'm afraid not. I've only just gotten off the plane." Well, a little white lie never hurt anyone. "I'm working on an investigative piece and his name has come up in enquiries I've been making."

The kid stared at her press badge and Daria stood up straighter, trying to project more _competent journalist_ and less _unemployed slacker._ He checked the computer in front of him, checking schedules.

"Please take a seat, Ms Morgendorffer, and I'll see if Mr Blackwood is available."

"Thank you."

She turned away as the kid picked up the phone and dialled an extension. She vaguely heard the kid say _New York reporter._

The magic words.

She heard heavy footsteps on the wooden floorboards, and the next second something crashed to the floor, followed by an echoing _"Fuck!"_ Daria had to suppress her smile. It reminded her of the first paper she had worked for in Boston, where a bail bondsman had run deals out the back and they shared their amenities with the PI next door.

A tired-looking man in his mid-fifties came through to the atrium. He was wearing a suit, but his was cheap and rumpled and had obviously seen better days.

"Mr Blackwood?"

"Ms Morgendorffer."

He offered his hand to her, which Daria shook. His grip was surprisingly firm, and Daria saw a spark of a journalist's curiosity in his eyes. Daria would have to be careful with this one: Neil Blackwood was no country yokel.

"Call me Daria."

"Neil." He indicated for her to follow him. "Coffee, Daria?"

_Not really._ "Sure."

Neil Blackwood led Daria past rows of desks, some empty and some with reporters working away to make their deadlines. She heard the crackle of a radio, and recognised the sound of a police scanner from her own time working the crime desk.

They ended up in a tired-looking break room, the fridge looking like it had been bought in the 1960s and hadn't moved since. Neil reached up for a bag of coffee pods.

"So, I hear that you're running an investigation and my name came up?"

"In a respect."

He continued making coffee. "Forgive me if I'm suspicious, Daria. A New York reporter coming all this way to talk to little ol' me."

"Stranger things have happened."

"Perhaps, but since you're on an official sabbatical from your network, I have to wonder exactly what is going on."

Daria smiled ruefully. This was easier ten years ago when social media wasn't quite as prevalent and you could fake your way further along before getting busted. He had probably Googled her before he came out.

He handed her a cup and she took a sip. It wasn't that bad, considering it was that instant pod crap. "You've caught me. This is a rather extra-curricular exercise."

"I understand. I used to be an eager young thing once, too." Neil sat on a wooden crate stamped _LSH._

_Eager young thing?_ Daria took a seat opposite on a broken swivel chair. "I've got a lead on a story, and that lead has taken me directly to you."

Neil's eyebrows rose. Daria opened her folio to the sanitised article about the crash all those years ago and handed it across to him.

"Did you write this?"

He heaved a sigh. "Yes, that's me. Before I took over from my father as editor."

Daria leant forward on her chair. "Forgive me for being blunt, but who excised the report, Neil?"

He was a good actor, Daria would give him that, but she still spotted the miniscule facial tic before his expression smoothed and he took a sip of his coffee. After all, a journalist's writing was sacrosanct. "What gives you the idea that the report was excised?"

"Well, for one, the bland irregularity which seems unusual for a publication that has always prided itself on maintaining a level of integrity." It was an insult and a complement at the same time. "And this."

She flipped to Angry Dave's column.

Neil's friendly face closed off. "What is this to you, Ms Morgendorffer?"

"I've got the lead on a story." Daria said.

"I knew another reporter who got a lead on a story. He had the exact same look you have." Neil Blackwood put his coffee down and looked at her squarely, his face grim. "Now listen here, miss, some advice for free. These people you don't want to mess with. They almost shut us down and bankrupted us, and forced us to get rid of one of our best writers."

"And they almost killed someone very important to me." Daria said. "Who excised the story?"

Neil looked at her in confusion, down at his story, and back up, understanding in his eyes. His voice gentled. "I understand the drive of righteous anger, Daria, but unless you have something solid to go on, they will destroy you."

"Then give me something solid to go on, Neil."

"I still don't understand your interest in a road accident from almost twelve years ago."

"Because I have a feeling that there's something bigger going on here, and you wouldn't be warning me off if you didn't think the same. Tom Sloane is going to be running for mayor, the perfect springboard to governor and president, and traditionally that's when the corpses start floating to the surface."

"Grace, Sloane & Page threatened to sue for libel if any names were included." Neil said. "But that's not surprising, considering. It's one rule for the rich and another for the rest of us. Those fucking kids got off scot-free, while that poor bastard in the other car... well, at least he managed to build a life for himself after."

Daria pulled in a breath. "Grace, Sloan & Page. Did you speak to any of the senior partners?"

"Only a minion. But the cease and desist letter was clear enough."

"Did they force you to get rid of Mr Sorenson?"

He rubbed his forehead.

"Dave left after the threats of libel. He was too good to let the rest of us be dragged down with him."

"Who were the witnesses he mentioned in his column?"

"I never checked. A reporter is entitled to protect his CI. He only would have had to reveal that in the case it ended up in court. The police found no evidence to charge one person as culpable, and if that musician had taken all those involved to court, they would have screwed him over even more. We're talking Lawndale's richest and most powerful. The elite, if you will."

_Elite, my ass._

"I need to talk to him."

Neil Blackwood looked at her for a long time.

"I only have the forwarding address he left with me eleven years ago."

"It's a start, Neil." Daria said. "I have to ask, if this gets more complicated, will you be willing to stand up in court and tell the judge that you were threatened into redacting aspects of your story?"

"Daria, put together a court case, and I'll be the first to put my hand up to testify."

* * *

Daria walked out with Dave Sorenson's address and a copy of everything that survived the purge from Grace, Sloan & Page, which really consisted of the cease & desist letter from the firm.

She looked at the sticky note with Sorenson's address. It was in Mirage. From Lawndale the drive would take around six hours, another six back, and however long it would take to get Sorenson to share whatever information he had. It was entirely possible that she would get there and he would have no worthwhile information for her. Jane and Trent would definitely notice if she took the car for the entire day, and she'd never get back to Lawndale in time for the radio play if she took the bus.

_This is not like the Mirage thing..._

She needed someone with a car, someone who people really wouldn't notice if he took off for the entire Tuesday, someone who was guaranteed to be available.

Maybe someone retired.

Daria dug her cell out of her laptop bag and dialled.

"Hey, it's Daria. How do you feel about going on a road trip, Dad?"

When she reached the house, Jake Morgendorffer was waiting by the Lexus for her, looking excited and a little jumpy. He gave her a hard hug and Daria could feel his nervousness.

"Hey, kiddo!"

"Ready to go, Dad?"

"Rearin'. All this sneaking about is making me feel like a spy!"

They both climbed into the car and Jake pulled out of the driveway.

"You were very hush-hush on the phone, Daria, what exactly is going on?"

"Can't I go on a road trip with my favourite guy?" Daria asked. _Putting it on a bit thick there, Morgendorffer. Even Dad'll notice._

His eyebrows briefly lifted in a _you really think I'm_ that _dumb?_ expression. "Honey, I'm not that good with sarcasm, and I know I'm a bit of an idiot at times, but I do _know_ you. You have a purpose behind everything."

"Thank you?"

Jake sighed. "Just tell me that whatever we're doing is safe."

Out of his sight, Daria crossed the fingers on one hand. "Sure, Dad. We're just going off to see an old reporter friend of mine in Mirage."

Jake's eyes narrowed in recognition of the name, and it took Daria a moment to remember that Trent was her dad's friend too. She changed the subject. "Won't Mom notice when she gets home from work and you're not there?"

"I left her a note." Her dad said, like that made it all okay. "She'll just be happy that I'm not messing up the house."

"You make it sound like you're a pet."

The Lexus sped past the county line, and Daria sat up straight, staring out the window and wondering when they would pass the exact spot that Tom ploughed into Trent. From her peripherals she saw her dad sneaking looks at her, and she saw his eyebrows rise as something occurred to him. His eyes snapped back to the road and his face changed. Daria recognised the expression, though she hadn't seen it since she was about eighteen. It was the _my-god-my-innocent-little-daughter-is-having-sex_ face.

"Whatever you're thinking right now, keep it to yourself."

"Of course, sweetie."

They were almost four hours into the trip when something occurred to Daria and she glanced sideways at her dad.

She frowned. "Dad?"

"Yeah, sweetie?"

"I don't know if you remember, but the very first time you met Tom when I was dating him, you mentioned something about his dad being involved in insider trading. What exactly did you mean?"

Jake answered the question with a question of his own. "This Sorenson guy isn't really your friend, is he?"

"No."

"What are you playing in, Daria?"

And Daria, needing someone she could trust entirely, told her father about her date with Tom and his drunken confession, the nightclub and Trent's panic attack, and her conversation with Neil Blackwood earlier that day.

Jake was quiet for a long time. "Why are you doing this, honey?"

"What?"

"What do you think you can achieve? It was all a long time ago. The Sloanes are untouchable. Tom is running for mayor. What do you want?"

"This has been eating away at Trent for years now. He needs justice. Tom has been given everything his whole life, no consequences for any of the crap he's pulled, and as soon as he gets elected mayor he'll be in the fast lane towards the presidency. Everyone knows what he's done, but they're all afraid to call him to account, because the Sloanes have money and that makes them powerful."

Her dad sighed. "Daria, every president I've been alive for has been corrupt in some way or another. There's no getting around that. He would hardly be the first political figure to get behind the wheel and almost kill someone."

Daria looked at him, surprised at his lucid observation.

"Dad, this is what I became a journalist for. To try and right the wrongs around me. To see the corruption in our public figures and try to bring someone to account. If this is the type of man Tom has become, he doesn't deserve to be President, let alone mayor." Daria sat back. "I'd think twice about having him working for the sanitation department."

Jake frowned. "But if you _do_ bring the Sloanes to account, honey, Trent will still be... off. And, really, he's not the kind of guy to want some sort of _revenge_ in the first place."

"Yeah." Daria said, knowing that Trent wouldn't be happy about her going after Tom after all this time, and especially after what had happened recently with Tom and herself. Jane, meanwhile, would have been in the backseat with her hockey mask and chainsaw.

He gave her a veiled look Daria wasn't sure she liked. "You like the guy."

Out of all her family, she'd never thought her _dad_ would be the first to cotton on. "Of course I like the guy. He's Jane's brother."

"That's not what I mean and you know it, kiddo. You're _sweet_ on him."

Daria pulled a face. "Dad."

"Your mom's going to go nuts when she finds out you're dating a musician."

"Dad!"

Jake shook his head, knowing that once his daughter had committed herself to something, whether it was saving the world or just saving one guy, there was no talking her down. His grin faded.

"Do you remember all the hoo-ha around the development of the Mall of the Millennium when it was first announced, what, sixteen, seventeen years ago?"

Daria frowned. "Yes."

"The council had already decided on a proposed site. All they had to do was purchase the required land, which was an undeveloped tract. Angier Sloane was on the board of the development committee."

Daria listened quietly.

"But before the Lawndale council could buy the land, other corporations bought it out from under them. They got it eventually, but instead of getting a parcel of undeveloped land for a bargain price, the council had to buy single blocks from several corporations at a premium."

"What happened?"

"The papers found out that the majority of the sellers were long-term investors with Grace, Sloan & Page."

_Ah._

"Someone leaked the information to investors."

"And all the money made from the sale was being funnelled back directly into the firm."

"My God." She had probably read about it when it happened, but when she was sixteen none of the names would have meant anything to her.

"Angier Sloane managed to produce depositions and witnesses against one of his partners, got him sent to prison for three years."

"Which partner?"

"Page, I think."

"Kirk Page?"

"That's the one."

A puzzle piece clunked into place.

"How did you remember all this?"

Jake jerked a shoulder in a shrug as he drove. "I guess I just like seeing the rich bastards get theirs."

"Keep watching the news, Dad, and I'll try to bring you your dream."

Mirage was a little crap-hole in the middle of nowhere, and Daria had to wonder at the complete gullibility of Mystik Spiral that it was so easy to convince them at the time that _this_ was going to be the next big hip place. Among the four of them, Trent was practically the only one of them with a reasonably functioning brain, and the Trent of fifteen years ago was, quite frankly, a delusional idiot.

"Here we are."

Jake pulled the car over in front of a weatherboard house with a sagging porch and old clunker in the carport.

"Are you sure this guy's here, kiddo?" Jake looked worried as they both sat together in the car.

"Let's find out. You can stay here if you want." Taking off her seatbelt, Daria stepped out of the car and started up the garden path. Jake hurried to follow her, not about to let her go into a strange house with a strange man.

Daria knocked on the peeling door, and that was when a massive dog came charging out from the backyard, snarling and drooling and snapping at them.

"Yah!" Her dad jumped back, hands on her shoulders.

The dog reached the end of his chain, snapping him back with a yelp. Daria watched as the dog slunk away with its tail between its legs.

"Fido's gone away. You can stop using me as a human shield now, Dad."

"Oh." Jake released her arms. "Sorry, kiddo."

She knocked again.

Finally the door opened, and Daria and Jake stared at the man beyond.

He couldn't have been that much older than Daria herself, but was prematurely aged beyond his years, grizzled and be-whiskered; his thick glasses slipping down his nose. He was dressed in ripped jeans and a stained t-shirt and looked like he should be waving around a shotgun and chasing them off his property, spitting out threats in redneck English.

And by the look in his eyes as he took in their neat suits and the fancy Lexus parked at the end of his drive, he just still might hunt them off with his shotgun.

"Daria?" Jake squeaked.

_Stay the course, Morgendorffer._ "David Sorenson? Angry Dave?"

The man just looked at her.

"My name is Daria Morgendorffer, this is Jake." Daria said. "Can we come in?"

His eyes narrowed. _Guess not._

"I need to ask you some questions about a column you wrote eleven years ago. _Poor Little Rich Kids Terrorise Town_. Do you remember it?"

His scowl was deepening as she spoke. "Remember it? It's the fucking column that ruined my life."

Sorenson started closing the door on them.

_Dammit._

Daria flung out her arm to stop the door in a movie move she'd never thought she'd actually use in real life. "Tom Sloane is about to become mayor!"

He looked at her a long moment before opening the door to them.

* * *

Inside was just as much of a wreck as outside, but David Sorenson had tried to make it warm and inviting. There were pictures of his friends on the walls, and over the mantel hung all his diplomas. Daria stared hard at the journalism school diploma from Yale University. The Sloanes had destroyed him.

It was then, standing surrounded by this squalor, that it occurred to her that maybe she would be next if she kept poking around.

Her dad was perched on the edge of one of the chairs, his eyes darting around like he was waiting for the hillbillies from _Deliverance_ to turn up. Daria decided that she would let him be anxious for both of them.

Finally Sorenson emerged from the back room, an archive box in his arms, marked with _Sloane/Page 06._

"Here it is, Morgendorffer. Everything on the case."

He plonked the box down in front of her. Daria sat down and pulled back the tape on the lid. The folios were all neatly organised, the notebooks labelled and numbered. Sorenson was nothing if not methodical. There were police records and medical records, and Daria winced as she read through the list of injuries Trent had accrued.

"Neil tried to stand by me and my work." Sorenson said. "But they were going to destroy the paper and take everyone down with it. No one wants to hire a journalist from a paper that went bankrupt because of shoddy work."

"No one wants to hire a journalist that was forced out because of a libel suit either."

"So I found out." Instead of bitter, this time Sorenson just sounded tired.

"I'm surprised they allowed you to keep any of this. They cleaned out the Sun-Herald."

"You're a journalist, Morgendorffer. Only an idiot wouldn't have multiple copies of their research. They got all the official stuff at the office, but most of this is my original notes. I was socked with a gag order, but no one ever turned up at my apartment demanding my research, so I just sat on it."

He peered at her curiously. "If you can prove Tom Slone ran into your friend, what will you do then? The statue of limitations for personal injury have long passed, so it's doubtful that he'll get any compensation for pain and suffering."

"Maybe not." Daria said. "But I've seen first-hand that Tom's behaviour hasn't improved since the accident." _Embraced the fucking Dark Side, more like._ "If anything, he's just become a bigger entitled jerk, convinced of his own superiority and invulnerability because of the family name and money. And Trent is now a popular Lawndale public figure." _Unbelievable but true._ "People _like_ him. If I can prove that Tom almost killed him and his family influence got him off-"

"-you'll derail the election." Sorenson's eyes glinted with the first spark of hope Daria had seen this far. "And the Sloanes lose their stranglehold on the town."

"And maybe open up further investigations into Grace, Sloane & Page." Daria said. "Clinton got booted out of the White House for a blow job. Almost murdering someone should slow down the Sloane political aspirations just a bit, you would think."

"Hell, if you find anything, I hope you throw me a bone."

"Sorenson?"

"Morgendorffer?"

"Who's your witness?" Daria said. "If you had just brought your witness forward in the first place, all this might have never happened."

"That's where things get complicated." Sorenson said.

_Of course it does._

"It's all in there."

"David?"

He sighed. "I didn't have a witness, _per_ _say_."

"What?"

"Sloane's friends decided to film the graduation party that night. All of it was caught on digital camera."

"The person who filmed it fessed up?"

"No. She put the camera into her bag without thinking, went home for the night, and forgot it in the shock. The girl was renting an apartment with her friend, my witness, and had borrowed her handbag for the night. About a week later, my witness found the camera, and because the two of them had recently had a disagreement, she was going to delete all the photos. That was when she found the recording."

"What happened to this recording?"

"She told her father. The next moment, the recording was gone. There was no justice for the poor bastard that got run over, so she came to me instead of the police because she wasn't technically a witness. They ruined my career because I was essentially operating in heresy as I'd never seen the video myself."

A feeling of impending doom was hanging over her head.

"What's her name?"

"Elsie." Sorenson said. "Elsie Sloane."

* * *

The two of them sat in the car, the box in the backseat.

"Daria?"

"Dad?"

"We're in trouble, aren't we?"

"I think so." Daria turned to her father. "Dad?"

"Daria?"

"I need you to take the box home with you, and put it somewhere safe."

"Why?"

"Because if Sorenson is right, then people might be watching me. When Tom sobered up, I'm sure he realised that I was going to look into what he said."

Jake looked around uneasily. This time his paranoia was entirely justified. "How do we know we're not being watched now?"

_We don't._ Daria looked down at the slip of paper in her hand with the last address David Sorenson had for Elsie Sloane, or _Elle Tyler_ , as she was known after her marriage. She itched to find the woman now, but if they left for Greensborough now, they would never get back to Lawndale in time for the play.

And she promised.

"I'm sorry I dragged you into this, Dad."

"Hey, I'm glad you trusted me enough to share this with me."

The two of them exchanged sly smiles as Jake turned the key in the ignition.

"Now we better get you back home before your fella starts to worry!"

"Dad!"


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For some reason AO3 duplicated an old chapter and got rid of a newer one, throwing the whole story out of whack. I hope I've fixed it now, and I'm sorry to anyone reading and wondering exactly what the hell is happening.

From the bottom of Dave's archive box, Daria found an unmarked yellow floppy disk and slipped it into her bag, unable to take anything else. When they got back to Lawndale it was so late that Jake drove her directly to the station. Daria impulsively gave him an awkward sideways hug before leaving, lifting her hand in a wave. Her dad, probably still paranoid from their previous conversation, waited until she had walked through the handful of cars in the parking lot and had been buzzed in to the building before he left the station.

Daria greeted Frank, the security guard on nights, who quickly hid the girly mag and grinned at her sheepishly.

"Keep doing that and you'll go blind." Daria said, breezing past him.

She could hear voices and music from the control booth, and as she turned a corner she could see them, Stacy as pretty and cool as always, and Trent. He looked up and smiled at her through the window, and she smiled back. He looked emotionally drained, but in a good way. Jane had tried her hardest to keep him home, but he had insisted just as strongly that he needed to get back into his 'groove'. Daria understood. Trent needed to get back into his routine, whatever it was, to step back into his life so he didn't dwell, didn't have _time_ to dwell.

She let herself into the booth. A commercial for Lawndale Fitness was playing, spruiking their local fun run. Daria could never get her head into running. If she wanted to do something where her legs burned from the effort and she couldn't quite breathe properly afterwards, there were a couple of other things she could do that were a lot more fun and required less effort.

"Hi, Daria."

"Hey, Daria."

"Hi." Daria sat at the third swivel chair that had been set out for her, in front of the third mic. With the massive headset and flat microphone, Daria felt she was Lois Lane about to cover a late breaking story in the 1980s.

"Weren't sure you were going to make it. Janey said you went off with your dad for the day."

"As unusual as it seems, from time to time I have been known to spend the occasional instance with a parent. Sometimes _two_."

"Hm." Trent's eyes narrowed thoughtfully, and Daria schooled her expression. _When did all the men around me become so perceptive? Was there an explosion at a nuclear power plant that gave people superpowers and nobody told me?_

"We'll be starting after the next commercial break, if you're ready." Stacy said.

"I am. Is everything okay here?"

She nodded to the mixing board. "Yep. We popped in a few extra sound effects, mainly so we weren't using the same bark for Jake each time."

"That's something I honestly wouldn't have thought of."

Stacy beamed at her, and it was so bright and happy it was like someone had shone a flashlight in Daria's face. She squinted to reduce the glare.

Daria pulled out her own script.

"Let's do this."

* * *

Daria couldn't believe she was doing this. Somehow, in the course of her career, she had managed to bypass radio completely as a platform for her work, and now she was completely at a loss. In theory, all she had to was talk when directed, but she always had a terrible habit of overthinking that theory.

Stacy nudged her arm. "Don't worry about it. You'll be great!"

She looked down at her notes. "Yeah."

"And if you mess up or something, it's only really shift workers and insomniacs tuned in, so there's nothing to worry about." Trent said.

_And Jane. And Mom and Dad. And Lex._

"Not helping."

The last commercial finished, and, just like they all had decided on, Trent reached out and pressed a button on the mixing board. The channel erupted in an explosion of static and he kept the switch down for a good half minute. _To, y'know, get people's attention._

Trent and Stacy both looked at Daria as she stared down at her script.

An interminable length of silence passed.

"Good evening." Daria finally said into the microphone. "My name is Katherine Morgan, and I'm a journalist reporting for the _New York_ _Times_."

And so it started, the story of Kit Morgan, small-time reporter, stumbling into something that was really too big for her. _Oh, how life imitates art._

* * *

"You're in too deep, girl." Trent growled out, staring down at his script. "You have no idea how far up this goes." Daria was startled at the familiarity to the current situation, and that these words had poured from her brain unconsciously only a few days before. "There's a reason I disappeared. You should consider that."

"I don't run away, Detective Stone." Stacy replied. "And I refuse to be a statistic. I'm going to get the truth, and you can't intimidate me out of it."

"The truth, huh?"

"I'm a journalist. That's what I do."

_I'm a journalist, that's what_ I _do._

"Hey, kid, it's your funeral."

_Well, it's my party and I'll die if I want to._

After a long moment of silence, Trent pressed the button for static. After another thirty seconds he loaded a playlist and the radio station was vapid and commercial once more. He made a slashing motion across his throat toward the secondary control room where a ghostly member of the radio's graveyard shift was waiting.

"That was _fun_."

Daria suspected that Stacy found most things fun.

"Yeah." Trent said. "Next one tomorrow?"

"Sure." Daria said.

"We should _totally_ grab a coffee or something."

"A coffee? Really? _Now?_ " Trent stretched, and something in his back popped. "Aren't you, like, wired enough already?"

"You know, why not?" Daria said, stuffing her script back into her bag.

"Really?"

"This isn't like you." Daria said. "It's still early. Or late. Whatever."

"Daria, I'm forty."

"Not _quite_ yet. You've still got a few months before you're officially old."

Trent looked at the two women staring up at him, Stacy with big eyes and her bottom lip stuck out, and Daria with her arms crossed and an eyebrow raised, unamused. He shook his head.

"Hell, why not? I'll sleep when I'm dead."

"Let's hear that enthusiasm one more time." Daria deadpanned.

She followed both of them as Stacy and Trent retrieved keys and jackets and cell phones from the office, and Daria looked around as the two of them exchanged brief greetings with the ghost shift staff. Her eyes widened slightly in surprise: Trent had a _desk_. The proof was right in front of her, and she _still_ couldn't quite believe that he had become the kind of man that had a _desk._

"Where to?"

"I know! How about _The Screaming Yenta_?"

Trent sighed.

"The screaming what now?"

"It's just a 24 hour diner and bar." He said. "It was originally supposed to be, like, the gathering place of the hipster trendy types and the too-contemporary-for-normal-sleep-patterns set, but because they're off Columbus Av, they ended out getting all the too-important-to-be-bothered-with-ordinary-people, y'know, jetsetters, businessmen, lawyers and their ilk."

Daria wondered what her mother would think about being referred to as _ilk,_ and realised that she probably wouldn't be bothered _._ "You're a businessman too, now."

"Yeah, but I'm still trying to keep it on the down low."

"Hate to break it to you, sport, but I'm pretty sure people have started to cotton on."

"Damn. There goes my reputation as a badass."

"I'm sorry, you had one of those in the first place?"

"Break my heart, Daria."

Yes, Daria decided, she rather enjoyed this back and forth. She had just opened her mouth to continue this verbal sparring session when the door banged open, slamming into the wall behind.

Frank the security guy was there, his eyes wide and terrified. He scanned the room without really seeing it.

"You okay, man?" Trent asked.

"Is everyone here? No one's gone outside into the parking lot?"

"What? No. What's going on?"

"I've called the fire brigade and the police, but I wasn't sure whether anyone had gone out for smokes-"

"Jeez, Frank!" Trent snapped.

"What are you talking about?" Stacy asked.

"I'm really sorry, boss, I saw someone creeping around, but I was too-"

" _What the hell are you going on about?"_

Wordlessly Frank gestured for them to follow him out through reception. Trent followed him, looking grim. Stacy and Daria exchanged looks.

Darting reds and oranges lit up the reception area, and Daria could hear the crackling and popping. With a feeling of trepidation, she followed the men out the door.

The heat smacked her in the face.

"My _God_."

She was aware of the ghost shift staff behind her, gasping and whispering.

Trent's car, the big black beast that Jane had dubbed the Mafia Staff Car, was merrily ablaze.

"Holy _crap_." Stacy said.

"Yeah."

"Everyone stay there!" Trent shouted back at them. "We don't know if the gas-"

_Boom!_

Daria ended up flat on the ground, her hands over her head, as the car exploded, covering her with shattered glass. The next instant the night was filled with emergency sirens and a cacophony of wailing car alarms. Ears ringing, she stared at the blazing shell, tongues of fire licking up toward the sky.

If that wasn't a New York-style message to back the hell off, she didn't know what was.

* * *

Daria's hands dug into the space blanket draped around her shoulders, holding the foil around her. She didn't _feel_ that she was in danger of falling into a stupor, but then, knowing her luck the moment she handed the blanket back to the paramedic, she'd collapse of circulatory shock.

Trent was next to her on the tailgate of the ambulance, wrapped in his own foil blanket. He had been closer to the car than she was, and had sliced open the skin above his eye when he had hit the deck, which a paramedic was currently poking experimentally to make sure the glass wasn't still in there.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him wince as the disinfectant was slathered on and cloth stitches were applied. "Baby."

"Sadist." He shot back. "Crap, this is going to jack up my premiums."

"I'm looking at you speak and I'm hearing the words come out of your mouth, but I'm not processing them properly. You're worried about your _insurance premiums_?"

"Insurance is expensive, Daria." He said seriously.

And Daria couldn't help it.

She started laughing.

"Oh my God, my parents are going to freak."

"Mine would too. If they've left the Himalayas yet."

She leant against his shoulder. "I'm never going to be able to sleep again."

"All done, Mr Lane." The paramedic said. "You'll probably have one heck of a headache in the morning, though."

Trent looked toward the burned-out husk of his car.

"I bet."

That was when Daria saw the policeman walking toward them.

"Look out, here we go."

Trent's eyes switched to the cop. "Hey, Seth."

_Huh._

It was an amusing twist of fate that Trent Lane was on first names with the cops for being a legitimate businessman, instead of a _criminalé_.

"Hey, Lane. Someone said you had fireworks at this party."

"How could you tell?"

The officer smiled at them. He was around Trent's age, his thinning hair in a military cut, gleaming badge on his belt, and looked annoyingly familiar. "You have working CCTV?"

"'Course we do. Serviced last week."

"Great. Then this should be a relative easy catch. We'll find who did this."

"So it _was_ arson?" Daria asked. _Of course it is, moron. Spontaneous vehicular combustion isn't a thing._

The cop looked at her like he wasn't sure how much he should reveal in front of her.

"It's okay." Trent said. "Daria's my... whatever."

Her eyes narrowed. "Thanks."

"There are traces of accelerant." The policeman said. "While it's probably just kids messing around-"

"-because all kids carry accelerant. It's the must-have item of the under twenties set." Daria said acerbically.

"-we can't rule out something deeper. Buddy, I have to ask you, has anything happened recently that may cause someone to want to torch your car? Cut someone off in traffic, move in on the wrong girl, something like that?"

Daria and Trent exchanged a glance. Daria could practically see the moment the cop's brain went _oh snap._

"Daria was on a date with Tom Sloane two days ago." Trent said, a reluctant edge to his words.

The cop's attention immediately ratcheted up a notch and his eyes sharpened.

"We used to date a long time ago, and were still kind of friends." Daria said. _Why am I justifying myself to a cop? Wait, am I justifying myself to the cop, or to Trent?_ "He was drinking, and, um, propositioned me... Trent had to come get me."

"He threatened you?" His voice was sharp. Daria looked up. For some reason the idea that the Lawndale Police Department was just as eager to nail the Sloanes never occurred to her.

"Not explicitly."

"He sounded pretty threatening to me." Trent growled.

"You were there?"

"Daria called me. She kept her cell on the entire time."

Daria could practically see the cop's brain ticking over. The call would be easy enough to trace.

"Where was this?"

"La Rennard." Daria said. "It was out the front of La Rennard."

"The richy-rich place? There'll be cameras, witnesses, I'll find it." His triumphant expression clearly said _that's probable cause, my son._ He looked at her closely. "Why didn't you report this?"

Daria felt herself flush. "I guess I was just in shock. When Tom sobered up he stared calling to apologise, but I just blocked the number and went on with my life."

Trent looked doubtful. "D'you really think Tom Sloane would have torched my car because of me and Daria?"

That possibility had never occurred to Daria, and it left a sour taste in her mouth. Surely Tom wouldn't be that petty. But then, she also had been certain that he wouldn't have become an entitled drunk.

"Revenge is a powerful motivator."

"Revenge? You've _gotta_ be kidding-" Trent rubbed his forehead. "Seth, you're not gonna start something, are you?"

"Me, no." Seth said. "But it can't hurt to pay Mr Sloane a visit."

Trent closed his eyes, an expression on his face like he was the only sane man left on the planet.

* * *

After the cops had taken statements from the members of the staff, they were finally allowed to leave.

Daria and Trent split a cab, and the whole time the driver kept sneaking peeks at them. Daria understood why the moment she glanced in the rear-view mirror and recoiled. They were covered in dirt and soot, and in Trent's case, blood. She discreetly sniffed herself; she reeked of smoke and motor oil.

"Been in the wars?" The cabbie asked cautiously, like at any moment they were going to shank him and jack his car.

"You should see the other guy." Daria said.

Trent smirked.

He unlocked the front door to the apartments, and Daria hoped that none of the other families in the building were up, as it would hardly be conductive to morale to see them walking in looking like they had been the losing participants in a demolition derby.

The two rode the creaking elevator to the top floor.

"You know, you should really water that plant."

"I _knew_ I keep forgetting to do something."

"Why the heck do you even have it?"

"My mom thought the place was too sterile and industrial."

Daria wiped her grimy fingers on her pants. "God, I smell like I'm a member of a pit crew."

"Hey, I was in a band. I've stunk worse."

"That's... comforting?"

Trent smiled, and was about to reach out to put his key in the lock when Daria stilled his hand.

"Trent?"

"Daria?"

"Um."

He turned to face her, looking concerned. "You okay?"

"What you said to that cop. About us. The _whatever_."

His eyes darted away. "Um, yeah. Sorry. I just blanked."

"Blanked on what?"

"As in, I guess, I was taking and then didn't really know how to fill in the blank." He said, making a weird sense. "Daria, I like you. But I don't want to be Janey's creepy older brother. Wind's already got that covered anyhow."

"Yes, I believed we covered that already." Daria said.

"And I don't want this to be some holdover crush thing. Or some sort of, I don't know-" his face screwed up as he bit the word out "- _pity_ thing."

She blinked, frowning. "Do you think I _pity_ you? Trent, I pity lots of people, for lots of reasons, but you're _not_ one of them. You know me well enough to know that!"

He glanced back at her, and Daria saw that spark of insecurity in his eyes again.

"Yes, I had a crush on you way back when. You were hot in an unattainable way, but flaky and unreliable and nothing I could have _possibly_ considered for long term. But you're not that guy anymore. I'm not that girl, and I thank God for that every day." Daria said.

"So I'm now reliable but not hot?"

"Shut up. So, what about us?"

"Would you, uh, like there to be an 'us'?"

In response, Daria rose up on her tiptoes and pressed her lips to his. Trent froze for a moment, before he tentatively deepened the kiss, hands on her hips. He tasted of smoke and cigarettes and something uniquely _him_ that she couldn't identify. _Top Five, definitely Top Five._ Daria pressed closer, an arm hooked around the back of his neck, and-

-her glasses clacked into the bridge of his nose.

" _Ah_ ,"

She couldn't help but smile. "Sorry."

Trent swept the glasses from her head. "Easy fix." He cupped her jaw to kiss her again and-

-the front door was pulled open from the inside. "What the heck are you two doing out-?"

Trent let Daria sink back to her feet, and it took her a moment to realise that she was still holding onto his waist. It had been a while since she had been that thoroughly kissed, her legs were wobbly and her heart was pounding, and Daria just _knew_ her best friend could tell-

_Jane, your timing sucks._

Jane blinked owlishly at the two of them standing out on the landing, at a loss for words. Daria's cheeks were burning, her glasses still hanging incriminatory from Trent's fingers, all too aware of his hand still resting softly on the small of her back.

"This is not what it looks like!" Daria blurted without thinking.

Jane leant casually against the doorframe, arms folded. "Really? Coz from where I'm standing it looks like you just jumped my brother."

"Alright, maybe it is what it looks like, but I can explain."

Jane waited, an eyebrow raised and a smirk playing around the corners of her mouth.

Daria's shoulders drooped.

"Yeah, I got nothing."

Finally Trent smiled at his sister sheepishly, sweeping a hand back through his hair.

"Hi, Janey."

The next moment Jane stepped forward and punched Trent hard in the arm.

"Hey! What's your damage?"

"That was for stealing my best friend, you hussy!" But there was laughter in her voice as she said it.

"Jane!" Daria was mortified as she shoved her glasses back on. "That's-"

And then Jane hugged her brother tightly. Trent looked over her head at Daria, and he looked as clueless as Daria felt.

"Janey? You okay?"

"You finally picked a winner, you idiot. I knew you would eventually." Jane beamed, and then sniffed experimentally. "Why do you smell like gasoline?"

"Ah-" His look at Daria clearly said _help_. "Thing is-"

She grabbed his chin, angling him down so she could clearly see the slice in his forehead and the smudge of dried blood under his eye.

"What did you do to your _head_?" Jane demanded. "What the hell were you two _doing_?"

* * *

"I'm going to kill him."

There was really no other choice but to tell Jane about the fire, and Daria's incident with Tom at the restaurant.

"We don't know whether it was him." Trent said, trying to be the voice of reason in the room since Daria had temporarily taken a leave of absence from the post. "Come on, torching my car coz I'm with his ex? Who seriously does that outside TV?"

Jane was prowling the apartment, her hands curled to fists at her sides, her face twisted in anger.

"I need a drill and a spray jacket and I can make it look like an accident."

The deadly serious tone in her voice startled even Daria.

"I'm not sure you've entirely thought through the practicalities of DIY-related murder." She said. "Jane, maybe you should try to calm down a little."

"Screw that. _No one_ messes with my family and my best friend and gets away with it."

"Leave it to the cops, Jane." Trent said sternly, for the first time since Daria had known him actually sounding like the older brother he was.

Jane looked at her brother in surprise, and he met her gaze squarely, the serious expression out of place on his face.

"This is getting crazy, and if it _is_ Tom Sloane _,_ I don't want you tied up in this, like, _conspiracy_." He said. " _Either_ of you."

Daria flushed lightly and bit her lip, thinking of the archive box in her parents' house.

"He _blew up_ your car-"

"Which means that the _cops_ can take it from here. We've already had three generations of Lanes put in jail so far, I don't wanna be FedEx-ing you pizza care of Folsom Prison."

Jane's shoulders slumped. "Everything is just so out of control-"

"It's called growing up, Janey."

"Well, I'd like it to stop now, please."

Trent gave a harsh bark of laughter before pulling his sister into a one-armed hug. Feeling like she really should participate to the moment somehow, Daria kicked Jane in the ankle.

"Drama whore."

"Miserable tart." Jane put her other arm around Daria's shoulders, pulling her into the hug. "So, are you going to tell me about this?"

"What?"

"Huh?"

"You pair, you idiots! _This_ thing!" Jane shook her head at their inability to keep up with her abrupt mood gear-changes.

Daria frowned. "You should probably get that attention deficit disorder thing looked at."

"Don't make me hurt you. I need details, people, details!"

Trent frowned at his sister. "She's your best friend."

"And _he's_ your big brother. Are you sure you don't want to reconsider that position?"

"Good point." Jane frowned like all the years she had been teasing Daria about Trent she had never really stopped to think about the practicalities. "As much as I love you both, there are some things I _really_ don't need to know about you."

Daria squirmed out from underneath Jane's arm, having had her fill of bonding and togetherness for a lifetime.

"I need to have a shower."

"Daria, if you want to proposition my brother, could you at least wait until I'm out of the room first?"

"Jane!"

* * *

After Daria had finally managed to shower off the grime and the smell of burnt car, she had stepped out into the common area to find it deserted.

Light had been spilling out of Trent's open bedroom door and Daria peered around the frame to see Jane sitting crosslegged slumped across the end of Trent's bed and her brother reclining back in the pillows, both Lanes watching reruns of crap on Trent's TV. While Trent had been almost asleep, Jane had smiled at her, and Daria had stepped cautiously into the room, sinking down awkwardly onto the other side of the bed.

"Chuck Norris, MacGyver, or bad kung-fu films?"

"How could I possibly choose?" She asked. "Hell, I could use some cheese."

During the eighties-fest, Daria's eyes had closed. _I'll creep back to the couch in a bit..._

And some time during the night, Jane had snuck out of the room.

So it was the second time in a handful of days that Daria Morgendorffer had woken up wrapped up in Trent Lane's arms.

She yawned, feeling boneless and comfortable, and snuggled down deeper into Trent's comforter, her head on his shoulder, hand splayed across his chest. Feeling her squirm, Trent sleepily dropped a kiss onto the top of her head, his arms tightening around her slightly.

Consciousness crept back to her in stages, and when the last of the sleep dropped away, Daria's eyes popped open.

_I don't want you tied up in this conspiracy. Either of you._

She had to tell Trent. There was no other option.

Daria stiffened in his arms, and something about her sudden reaction prodded Trent's sleeping brain into wakefulness.

"Wassamatter?" His voice was scratchy and hoarse.

"Trent, I've got something I really need to tell you."

He blinked at her blearily before scrubbing a hand across his eyes. "We haven't had sex yet, so you can't be pregnant."

"You're hilarious."

Hearing the grim tone in her voice, Trent rolled onto his side to face her.

"What's wrong?"

She heaved a sigh. What she was going to say next could spell the end of their fledgling relationship. "You're going to hate me for this."

Even with her blurry vision, Daria could make out Trent's confused frown.

"Maybe I'll decide that, huh?"

_Rip the bandaid off, Morgendorffer._

"I've been looking into your accident."

He stiffened.

"Why would you do that?"

Daria touched his hand, and counted it as a small victory that he didn't flinch away.

"Because you need closure." Daria said. "And even though you pretend it doesn't, seeing Tom getting away with the same crap over and over is killing you a little bit inside all the time."

He closed his eyes.

"The original report in the newspaper was heavily redacted. Another journalist wrote a column on out of control rich teens, named Tom in the article, and he was blackballed in the industry, the newspaper threatened with a lawsuit that would have put them out of business, by Grace, Sloane & Page. My dad and I tracked the journalist down the other day, and I have his research."

She was glad she didn't have her glasses on, as Daria didn't really want to see his expression right now.

"And I've got a feeling that... last night, with your car, might be _my_ fault. With the election coming up, the Sloanes wouldn't want your story to come out."

_Someone warning me to back off._

"Y'know, I've never quite had pillow talk like this before."

Trent's voice was too low for Daria to be able to infer anything from his tone.

"Are you finished?"

"There's supposed to be a video of that night." Daria said softly. "I'm going out to meet the girl that saw it, Elsie."

He let out a long breath through his nose. Daria couldn't tell if he was trying to contain his anger, or just tired. Finally Trent tugged her forward and pressed a kiss to her forehead.

"I shoulda expected this the moment I told you."

"I'm... forgiven?"

"Don't push it, Daria." But there was a small smile in his voice as he said it. Daria's arm went around his waist.

"I could use a wingman to Greensborough."

"Can I get a couple hours more first?"

"Mm."

With her fuzzy eyesight, she dismissed the shadow that passed under the door.


	14. Chapter 14

What was the point of having familial connections if you couldn't exploit them?

Daria called her sister, and the next moment there was a neat little purple Mini Cooper waiting out the front of Trent's apartment block, a loaner from the boutique.

Trent didn't look impressed when he saw it.

"What the hell is _that_?"

"Be nice, it's free."

"It's only redeeming feature."

"When did you get so cranky?"

Trent blinked into the sunlight before slipping on his shades. "This is night-time for me, Daria."

For a man that routinely finished work at one to two in the morning, she supposed it was. She fished the address out of her pocket and stared at the directions she had scribbled on the other side.

"Turn left when on the highway..." Daria murmured, perusing the pointers she had written to herself.

Trent sighed, and she was fairly sure he rolled his eyes behind his sunglasses. "Give me the keys."

"What?"

"Me and the band used to go to Greensborough all the time for gigs." He said.

"Hey, that's one better than me." Daria handed over the keys. "Won't you lose your _cool_ license if you're seen driving a girly car?"

"If someone asks, it's your fault."

* * *

Greensborough lived up to its name, the highway into town lined with tall trees, branches entwined above their heads.

"Huh."

While Lawndale had somehow turned itself into a culture hub, Greensborough had made a name for itself by being an artsy and hip centre for the arts. Driving into the outskirts of town, there were banners all over for local art displays and competitions, and coming up on the weekend was-

"Alternapalooza?"

Daria glanced sideways at Trent.

"I thought Alternapalooza was held in Swedesville."

"Yeah and nah." He said. "A while back, someone had the idea to turn Alternapalooza into a brand. There're Alternapalooza festivals popping up all over for local bands. Here, Oakwood, Rowantree, they're even talking about getting one going in Lawndale in the next few years."

"Is there a Mystik Spiral reunion on the cards?"

Trent laughed. "Not even if we knew where Nicholas was."

"Spoil sport."

Trent turned into the residential area, and the two cruised along, looking for the turnoff.

"We're looking for Garden Street. The house should be on the corner of Garden and Rose, and the last time Sorensen went there, there was this massive cactus growing out of the fence."

"Blue door. With the number 5 on it."

Daria looked up from her directions in surprise. "How do you know that?"

Trent was staring forward intently, a frown on his face.

"Max lives there."

It took Daria a moment to remember. "The drummer?"

"Yeah. He dropped us all a line 'bout five years back when he started his business from Greensborough." His frown deepened. "Are you looking for _Elle_? _Elle_ is a Sloane?"

Daria was floored. "How do you know Elsie?"

"We gave Max crap for ages for shacking up with some posh rich chick to be a kept man. I was at their wedding."

" _Wedding_?"

"You know, when two people love each other very much-"

"Yeah, yeah. Fuck off."

_It's a small world after all, it's a small world after all..._

Trent pulled over to the curb before pulling a U turn.

"What are you doing?"

"There's no point going to the house. It's Wednesday. They'll be at work."

* * *

Trent parked the car halfway up the main street, in front of a building that was black and blue and chrome all over. Daria stepped out, looking at the professional business storefront.

The sign above the windows read _Tyler & Tyler Music Promoting._

She followed Trent into the building.

Band posters lined the walls and an ancient drum kit sat in the front corner of the reception area. Daria smirked at the Mystik Spiral twister decal. A young black guy with white dreads was manning the phones. Eavesdropping on the conversation for a moment, she discovered that _Tyler & Tyler_ were covering the majority of the organisation for Alternapalooza.

Stuck on the phone, the young guy tapped the glass partition between his reception desk and the inner office, and after a moment an older man came out of the back, buttoning up his fancy pinstriped jacket.

His shiny bald head caught the light.

"Welcome to Tyler & Tyler Music Promoting. I'm Max. I'm sorry to say that we're unable to take any more business until after the festival-"

"Hey Max." Trent said. "Nice spiel."

"Trent!" Max's face split into a wide grin. "Man, it's been _forever_!"

And to Trent's consternation, Max pulled him into a hug.

"Jeez, look at you, man. You look like you've been mugged by Hugo Boss."

"You should talk, Mr Conservative! Station manager now, I hear. Talk about selling out."

"Hey, you should talk about selling out. That's, like, your stock in trade, isn't it?"

Daria cleared her throat. "This is a touching moment, but there _is_ a point to this impromptu reunion." She looked pointedly at Trent.

Trent looked sheepish for a moment. "Yeah. Max, we're looking for the wife."

"Elle?"

"Unless you have another one you haven't told us about."

"If I did, Elle would have killed me long ago." Max said. "What are you looking for her for?"

"Daria's a journalist." Trent said. "She's doing an independent piece and Elle's name came up."

_Well, not_ technically _a lie._

Max looked at Daria uneasily. "Nothing illegal, I hope."

"Max, what happened to being _criminalé_?"

"I'm already halfway sure she's secretly a criminal mastermind. I'd rather not know for sure."

"Ah, c'mon. You married her _because_ she's a foxy babe."

Daria kicked him in the ankle, and Trent gave her a _what?_ expression. "Her name's just come up in inquiries, that's all." She said. "I just have some questions for her."

Max squinted at her, like he was putting together memories from another lifetime. "Daria... Jane's friend, right?"

"Erm, yes."

His face brightened. "Cool. Is Jane floating around here too?"

"Not this time."

After a moment, Max's eyes widened, and he thumped Trent on the shoulder. "Christ, man. All that crap you guys gave me for dating a girl younger than me, and then you turn around and do the same thing."

"Yeah, but _I_ made a move after Daria had a driver's license and was old enough to not be carded at the door every time. Elle was barely out of her private school uniform."

"Don't get too conceited. Technically _I_ made the move, need I remind you." Daria reminded him.

For a moment Max looked almost insulted, before his expression mellowed. "Between me and you, she's still got that uniform, too."

_And ew._

Trent frowned. "She's going to kill you, you know."

"Yeah. I didn't think that through." Max disappeared around the counter. "Elle's on site today, helping with the setup. I'll text her that you're coming." He came around the counter holding two passes emblazoned with _Tyler & Tyler._

"On site where?" Daria asked, hanging the noose around her neck.

"We're music promoters." Max looked at her like she was thick. "Elle's making sure the setup runs smoothly for the biggest concert of the year for us."

Daria frowned.

"Alternapalooza."

Max's face brightened. "You should _totally_ come for the opening on the weekend! I'll get you on the list."

"Cool." Trent said.

_Hell no_ , said his eyes.

* * *

Over the years there had been several times where Daria had attempted to get to Alternapalooza. The first, of course, was the exercise in discomfiture that was when she was a clueless sixteen year old, wordlessly drooling over the unattainable sexy musician that was her best friend's brother, while the Tank's innards imploded and they never made it to the festival.

The second was when she was about twenty, and she and Jane had once again set out with Trent, Jesse, and the band. Halfway there, Max and Nick had a rip-roaring fight, Trent ended up with a box of drumsticks thrown at the back of his head while he was trying to negotiate the expressway, Nick barrel-rolled out of the side of the Tank, and Jesse broke a tooth on a granola bar.

The third was only a year later, and Mystik Spiral had managed to get a spot in the Alternapalooza lineup. Daria left off with her crazy cat-lady roommate Belinda. They'd stopped at a biker bar along the way, and the two of them had ended up delivering a baby on the floor of the men's room.

Yes, Daria didn't have exactly a good record with getting to Alternapalooza.

She and Trent badged through the facility's security, and a beer-bellied rent-a-cop pointed them toward where Elle Tyler was.

Daria stared around herself at the masses and masses of scaffolding around her, the bases of multiple stages. There were spray-painted outlines and notations in the grass marking out where other stalls and food carts would be set up. Roadies in various music promoter shirts were scurrying around, each focused on their own separate area.

And Daria saw her.

A dark-haired woman with a headset and a clipboard was standing on the largest stage, talking into her cell phone. In the way she stood, Daria recognised the easy confidence of a Sloane.

"That's her."

"Yeah."

The two of them stepped up onto the stage, and Daria looked out over the grass, the area that would be filled with people come the weekend. She could kind of understand why Mystik Spiral had kept going for a long as it did. Up here, in front of all those people, it must have been one hell of a rush.

She could make out snippets of Elsie's conversation with the person with the other end of the phone. "-no, that _won't_ do... we need the amps delivered by Friday at the latest... what is the _point_ of a music festival if no one can hear the music?... you better, or I can assure you that you _will_ be hearing from my lawyer."

She hung up her cell, looked down at her clipboard, and swore like a trucker.

_Classy lady._

"Hey, Elle." Trent said.

Elsie turned to them, and Daria saw the slight stiffness in her smile as she looked at him. "Oh, hi, Trent."

Trent had confided in Daria that for years he had thought he had offended her without realising it, but now they knew it was simply Elsie not knowing how to react to one of her husband's friends being the man her brother ran into.

"Max was gonna text you."

"He did. I was just trying to sort out our equipment shipments."

"Amps gone missing, huh?"

"There's fuck all point having an open-air festival without amps."

"Gotcha."

Elsie looked at Daria curiously. "You're the journalist?"

"That's me." Daria said. "I'm not sure if you remember me. I'm Daria Morgendorffer."

"Morgendorffer?" Elsie's eyes narrowed, and Daria could tell that the woman remembered her right away. Tom's ex-girlfriend, now with the man he almost killed, coming back as a journalist, and turning up on Elsie's doorstep. It was like a plot from Simon's soap opera.

_Oh, what a tangled web we weave, when we practise to deceive._

"I don't really have time right now." She said in a brisk businesswoman voice. "We have bands coming in from all across the area, and-"

"Elsie, it's about the video." Daria said.

The woman stiffened.

"How do you know about the video?"

"David Sorensen told me."

Elsie pressed a button on her headset. "Red, cover for me. I'm taking five."

* * *

Sitting among the builders nosily assembling stages and scaffolding, and the roadies with their butt-cracks hanging out, no one really noticed the three of them.

"After that night, everyone got really weird." Elsie confessed. "Tom got really quiet and hid in his room. Mom and Dad were yelling at each other all the time until she left. I didn't put it together with your accident until I found the video."

The two of them were quiet, letting her talk. Daria saw Trent stiffen, and reached out to put her hand over his.

"Mandy and I used to be best friends, and then after that night she started bitching about anything and everything. I had enough when I caught her stealing money from my purse.

"One day I found the bag that she'd used when they all went out, and there was her digital camera at the bottom. I was feeling pretty bitchy so I thought I'd go and delete all the pictures."

"An understandable reaction." Daria said.

"I ran 'em through the computer first, in case there was anything, I dunno, juicy there that I could use later, and..." Elsie trailed off. "I found the video."

Her eyes flickered up to Trent and then back down.

"What happened next?" Daria prodded.

"I should have called the police." Elsie said, shamefaced. "But I called my father instead."

Daria closed her eyes.

"He came over to my apartment, and watched the video with this blank expression on his face, like he already knew what he was going to see. I had to take a breather, and when he came out after me, he said that he would take care of everything and I wasn't to worry my pretty little head." She sneered at that.

Trent looked down. _That must have been when the Sloanes paid out on his medical expenses._

"He deleted the video off your computer." Daria said.

"Yeah."

"And that's when you reached out to David Sorenson."

"Nothing was being done. Tom was heir apparent to the first family of Lawndale, and ne'er would anything be allowed to sully the name of the golden child, Dad had made that obvious. There was no way in hell I was going to become my brother's disaster mitigation spin doctor, so I found Dave." She looked at Trent through her lashes. "I thought I was going to have a heart attack when Max introduced me to you a couple years after."

"I thought you were a bit weird, but I assumed I just came across as Max's depressing suicidal friend." At Daria's startled glance, he clarified, "I wasn't fun to be around for a good few years after."

"I should have realised that nothing would come of it. I got Dave kicked out and his paper almost shut down. It was a rain of crap all round." Elsie lent forward, hands on her knees, looking at Trent. "But why are you after this, after all this time?"

"Trent's car was torched last night."

"And Daria was threatened by your brother a couple days before."

Elsie frowned.

"What?"

"Your father is pushing Tom to run for mayor." Daria said.

"The first step on the road to President." Elsie sighed. "That sounds like him, the old man still living voraciously through his devil spawn."

"And I think that someone told Tom that I was investigating the accident."

Her eyes sharpened. "You think it was a warning?"

"If there was conclusive proof that your brother almost killed someone, especially because he was drunk and high, there would be no way that he would be elected."

"Tom's many things, Daria, but he's not... he's not _evil_." Elsie said. "There's a player you haven't taken into consideration."

"Is that so?"

"Good old Dad." She said bitterly.

"Angier Sloane." Trent said.

Of _course._ Another puzzle piece that made a whole chain of events make sense. _Angier Sloane_ was the one that paid for Trent's medical bills. _Angier Sloane_ was the one that deleted the video. _Angier Sloane_ was one of the first out of La Rennard that night.

_'_ _You're going to be President, you little drunk bastard.'_

"You think your _dad_ could have had my car torched?"

"My dad had his best friend sent to prison." Elsie said. "I think he's capable of anything."

The three of them were silent for a moment.

"This is all hearsay." Daria said finally. "All we really have is a cease and desist against the paper to suppress them from using their names, the notes from a disillusioned reporter, and Trent's medical bills with your father's name on them. It's circumstantial at the very best. We need something to link it all together conclusively."

Then Elsie dropped a bomb.

"I'm not sure if it helps at all, but I still have the camera."

* * *

It was early afternoon when they started their trek back to Lawndale. Trent looked like he sincerely wished he were anywhere else, and Daria understood that compulsion all too well. The overarching competitiveness and overall ugliness of New York at its worst was looking better and better compared to this Lawndale small-town politics and blatant corruption.

They didn't speak. This latest revelation had rocked both of them, and Trent was even less talkative than he normally was, steadfastly refusing to look anywhere but the road ahead of them, not even looking at Daria.

Daria really couldn't blame him.

Especially not when she was sitting in the passenger's seat with what felt like a live grenade in her lap, a live grenade wrapped up all nice in a flowery cookie tin.

Trent's silence was due to the digital camera from the early 2000s sitting in that tin. When it came down to it, he wasn't really that hard to read. At once he wanted to see the video, to discover everything that really happened and fill in the gaps in his own memory and perception, yet at the same time he wanted to throw it out the window and entirely forget the notion that the night had been videoed.

"Trent?"

"Daria?"

"How are you doing?"

"Mm."

Daria stared out the window at the trees and buildings flashing by.

"We should go get dinner sometime."

"Mm?"

"That's the accepted convention for coupled people."

"You're really the last of the diehard romantics, Daria."

"After Jane's showing, there's this nice little place in Long Island. Very artist-retreat-y, a place to relax and recharge. I think you'd like the atmosphere."

"Are you really already organising our first getaway?"

"I'm efficient like that."

"So, the whole boyfriend-girlfriend thing is, like, official, then?"

At that, Daria pulled a face.

"Okay, no boyfriend-girlfriend."

"Don't get me wrong, I guess I want to date you-"

"-you make it sound like I'm standing over you with a shotgun or something."

"-but don't you think we're a little mature for boyfriend-girlfriend labels?"

"Mature. Isn't that code for _old_?"

She glanced sideways at him, but the half-smirk on Trent's face told Daria that he didn't mean it.

"If the shoe fits."

"I was told once that men don't get old, they get distinguished."

"Who told you that? Your mother?"

"You're funny, Daria."

The way he said it, he could either have been serious, or _entirely_ taking the piss.

Daria smiled.

And then she straightened as she spotted something out the window.

"Stop here."

"What?" Trent shot her a look.

"Just pull over."

"Yes, dear."

* * *

It was a small town on the outskirts of Lawndale of a couple of hundred people. The main street consisted of a general store, a post office, a liquor store, McDonald's, and a Goodtime Chinese restaurant ( _damn things really_ are _everywhere_ ).

While Trent had wandered off in search of essential provisions that consisted of cola and Doritos, Daria paid for a package priority mail to Boston. Hopefully it would arrive to its destination the next day.

She addressed the box to _The Manager, DWC Data._

Daria was already sitting back in the car when Trent returned with sodas and takeaway.

"Ah, the mighty hunter has returned to the cave with his kill."

Trent smirked and handed over the McDonald's bag. "Entrails and viscera for milady."

"And he's using big words, too."

"It must be your presence, Morgendorffer. You're rubbing off on me." He frowned. "That sounded more dirty out loud than it did in my head."

"Heh."

It was getting dark by the time they got back on the road. As soon as they went over Glendale Hill, they would be back in Lawndale.

Someone must have been _pissing_ themselves when they'd named Glendale Hill. Trent had kindly informed Daria that it was locally known as the Dead Drop, an unforgiving cliff-face on one side and a sheer drop on the other when they'd cut through the mountain to make the road. On the drive to Greensborough Daria had been on the other side of the car and didn't see the drop. Driving back, she was afforded a front row seat as to how far down it would be if Trent made a wrong move, gravity tugging at the vehicle the whole way.

Lights lit up the inside of the car as Daria peered into the Dead Drop. Little roadside shrines of flowers and toys lined the highway, making her feel _really_ confident.

"Heck."

"Yeah, we're a fair way up." Trent looked back up into the rear view mirror, his forehead crinkled in a frown.

Daria glanced at him, tearing her attention away from the drop. "You okay?"

"We've had a guy behind us for a little way, but now he's gettin' a little close. I'm kinda hoping his brakes haven't failed, or something."

Daria immediately swivelled in her seat.

True enough, there was a mud-splattered SUV gaining on them, headlights blazing.

"What the hell is this dickhead doing?" Trent pulled the Mini over into the overtaking lane so the SUV could tumble off the side of the cliff in a spectacular explosion of fire without collecting them on the way and taking them down as well.

The SUV moved with them.

"What's wrong?"

Trent flashed the indicator so the bigger vehicle could overtake. But the SUV just kept gaining until he was tailgating, bulbar only inches off the Mini's rear bumper.

"Ah, Trent?"

_Crack!_

The car jolted forward, and Daria clawed at her seatbelt.

"He just _rammed_ us!"

_He's trying to force us off the side of the mountain._

"Just a love tap." Trent grunted, wresting with the wheel.

_And in the dark and the wet, it will look like an accident._

The driver was gaining again, white spotlights blinding. Trent gunned the engine, and the Mini jumped forward like a startled rabbit, but the acceleration and power of the little car was no match for the SUV, and-

" _Bend_!"

"Hold on!"

"Hold on to what?!"

_I always had an inkling that I'd check out in a fiery ball of death._

Trent swerved to the left, and as the SUV clipped the tailgate, he slammed on the handbrake, steering into the turn, and suddenly they were on the opposite side of the road. Daria hung onto the car seat for dear life as with a tearing of metal the guardrail slammed into the side of the car and the vehicle stopped with a jerk, suspended there.

The SUV gunned it into the night.

Daria's heart was pounding and her adrenaline was singing like she had bungee-jumped naked into the Grand Canyon slathered in honey and there were hungry wolverines at the bottom.

"Oh my _God_."

Trent blindly reached across the seat for her hand.

"You okay?"

"Are _you_?"

"Bastard didn't even stop!"

Daria didn't voice her dark thoughts, but she was sure that Trent was thinking the same thing.

"How did you learn to stop like that?" There was a quaver in her voice that Daria despised.

"Uh, after, y'know, _rehab_ , Jesse conned me into doing some defensive driving courses with him." He said in a low voice. "First time I got behind the wheel for a while."

"It's a good thing you were paying attention in class."

He gave a shaky laugh.

"That's something I've never heard before."

* * *

"Your run of luck is unbelievable, Lane."

"That's one word for it, Seth."

They were sitting in front of Officer Seth Sherman's desk in the Lawndale police station. Daria's hands had finally stopped shaking.

"Was there anything that stood out to you about the SUV? Do you know the colour?"

"It was covered in mud, and there were hunting spotlights mounted on the front." Daria said. "I think it was blue, but because of the visibility, the colour could have been blue, black, green, or even red. It was too dark to get a plate."

The officer sighed. "I can't exactly put out an APB on an SUV that might be blue, black, green or red."

"You can warn garages to keep an eye out for any SUV with damage to the bulbar." Trent suggested.

"That's hardly practical, Lane, and you know that."

Daria and Trent exchanged a glance.

"How are you going with who torched my car?"

"Whoever did it knew where your cameras are." Seth said. "We get the guy plenty of times on video, but we never see his face."

"It's a guy?" Daria asked.

"Height and build are a match, unless it's a particularly butch girl."

"I see those government-mandated sensitivity training courses for the police are doing wonders."

The officer looked between the two of them. "And while you're here, I should tell you that I found the CCTV from La Rennard, Ms Morgendorffer."

Daria straightened.

"And?"

"Mr Sloane has an alibi."

_Of course he does._

"And I feel obliged to tell you that he was _rather_ insulted." Seth put air-quotes around the 'rather'. "And said, quote, _I am deeply sorry for any distress I may have caused-"_

"It sounds like he's already practising for his impeachment hearing."

"- _and I'm sorry for the loss of Trent's car, but if Daria keeps on her crusade to discredit me, I will have no choice but to proceed with legal action."_ Seth said. "The only thing I can do is take out an AVO for you, Ms Morgendorffer. The official chain of events are completely independent of each other. A drunken confrontation, teenage vandalism, and a hit and run. You're not coming off very well either, Lane. The Sloanes are putting this up to you trying to ruin the election through a petty need for revenge."

Trent sighed. She could just see him thinking _there's that word again._

Daria scowled. "You _believe_ that?" She had thought that Seth was one of the good ones.

"Off the record, Ms Morgendorffer, I'm afraid that the Sloanes are closing ranks against you. Angier Sloane said you threw yourself at Tom Sloane in the restaurant, and then stormed off when you were turned down."

"But that's not- How dare-?"

"I have the CCTV, ma'am, I know." Seth said. "Some advice for free, I might consider leaving town for a while."

"You mean run away?" Daria demanded.

"Not permanently. Just until after the election. The Sloanes have become even more insufferable than usual, and it's not wise to poke the bear."

"Your advice has been taken into consideration." Daria said tightly. She could tell by the man's expression that he clearly caught her undertone of _and fuck you very much, officer._

She was still thrumming with anger when they finally left the station. How _dare_ Tom try and pin any of this on her?

Trent was hunting around in his pockets for his cigarettes, stress ratcheting up his need for a smoke, lighting up with an unsteady hand.

"I can't believe this crap!" Daria ran her hands back through her hair.

"I can." He exhaled a thin stream of smoke.

"My sister is going to kill me." She glanced at the Mini in the police impound lot.

"I'll fix up the repairs if the insurance doesn't pay out on the car."

"Let's go somewhere."

Trent looked at her, eyebrows raised.

"What? What happened to _your advice has been taken into consideration?_ "

"I thought I could handle this, Trent. But we were almost killed tonight."

"D'you think I don't know? I've been living with this for a lot longer than you, Daria."

Immediately Daria felt like crap for not even thinking even _once_ of how he must have felt. What the hell was _wrong_ with her?

"I'm sorry, Trent, I guess I don't know what I'm going to do. I thought I did, but now I'm not sure."

"You poked the bear, Daria. Now follow through."


	15. Chapter 15

It was dusk by the time the taxi dropped them off at the station.

Everyone at the radio station tiptoed around Trent like he could have snapped at any moment. His casual body language said that it didn't bother him, but Daria could see the frustrated spark, and she wondered if this was how he was treated when he finally managed to get out of rehab. Like he could break at any time.

And none of them knew about the near-miss on the Glendale Hill yet.

Stacy was waiting for them in the control room, going over the play notes. She looked up and smiled as the two of them entered.

"Hi."

"Hey."

"I wasn't a hundred percent on if you both were going to be coming in tonight."

"Why's that?" Trent asked.

Stacy looked uncomfortable. "I mean, after last night, with the car-"

"It's a _car_ , Hex." Trent said crossly. "I don't need everyone walking around like I'm gonna kill someone with a stapler or something. Since I've known you, when have I not been able to do my job?"

 _Disregarding the image of Trent Lane being a dedicated worker-_ "Trent-" Daria said.

"Stop being an asshole." Stacy snapped, and Daria blinked. "You're not just our boss, you're our _friend_. Of course people aren't sure what they should say, and would rather just stay quiet than say the wrong thing and accidentally start something. Grow up."

"Yeah." Trent slumped down. "Sorry, Hex."

Stacy pushed the script toward him. "Forget it. Let's just do a good job of the play, huh?"

* * *

When Daria woke up the next day, Jane had left that morning's newspaper on the kitchen counter. She scanned the paper. Tom was ahead in the mayoral polls and had just returned to Lawndale from a jaunt out of state, another drug had been recalled due to horrific side-effects, and a moral panic had been started by an actress flashing her underpants on the red carpet, oh the horror.

Another day in suburbia.

She was perusing the arts section when a heading caught her eye.

_Z93 Goes Back in Time_

_For the past few days Z93 has been running a War of the Worlds style radio play at the midnight transmission, which has raised a few eyebrows and garnered quite a few fans._

_'_ _You can't say it's new, and it's not really that fresh because it's very obviously been done before by Orson Welles, and arguably better.' Said radio presenter Hex (nee Stacy Rowe) 'but it's just a fun way of wrapping up the day, a way of us fooling around and entertaining our fans at the same time.'_

_Feedback has been flooding in one Facebook._

_'_ _A new voice on radio!' said beanobeano._

_'_ _A gripping beginning worthy of James Patterson. Let's hope the DJs can keep the story and the energy up.' LKKeppler wrote. 'I am excited to see where the writer takes this!'_

_The first two episodes are available for download on Z93's Facebook or their website, as will be subsequent episodes._

"Huh."

That was when her open laptop pinged.

She padded over and looked at the screen as the message flashed at her.

_TDC would like to chat. Accept?_

Once upon a time, Daria would have never guessed in high school that the one classmate she would consistently see after graduation would be Ted DeWitt-Clinton, and if you'd told her that, she'd recommend you sought treatment for an undiagnosed brain tumor. The stupidly sweet sheltered boy had grown into a stupidly sweet marginally-less-sheltered man, and Daria had to wonder how he stayed so happy and optimistic, especially considering what he did for a living, which had blindsided her the moment he'd told her.

Ted had become a forensic data retrieval expert.

His firm, DWC Data, was routinely approached by the police force, FBI and others to cope with the overflow from their own laboratories. While half of his company dealt with Joe Blow on the street that had accidently deleted everything on his hard drive, Ted dealt with finding extortion threats, people soliciting hitmen via email and proof of murder. During her work as a journalist, Daria had periodically used his firm to enlarge and sharpen photos and to retrieve deleted emails.

As a journalist, it was a fine line between legal and illegal.

She clicked _accept._

"Daria!"

"Hi Ted."

Ted grinned at her, blonde hair falling in a messy haystack around his shoulders as he unconsciously flicked his hideous polka-dot suspenders. Daria could see his personal office in the background. A picture of the wife and three kids sat on his desk, each looking more disgustingly wholesome than the one before.

"I missed you at the reunion! How _are_ you?"

 _I've been better._ "Pretty good."

After the socially-acceptable inane nonsense, Ted got down to business. Well, as much as Ted could get down to business.

"So, um, I got a package from you this morning."

"Yep."

"A camera."

"I sent a note." Daria said. "There's a video on this that was deleted eleven years ago. The camera wasn't used again after that night, so the data probably wouldn't have been rewritten. I could probably try and fiddle around with it myself, but I have a feeling that I would damage already compromised data. So I thought it best to leave in the care of experts."

"You don't have to butter me up, Daria." Ted frowned. "But I have to ask, this hasn't got anything to do with any sort of criminal proceeding or active police investigation?"

Daria was tempted to cross her fingers. "Of course not. Have I ever asked you to do anything illegal?"

"Hm."

" _Strictly_ illegal." Daria said. "Only thing is that since this is rather an extracurricular exercise, the network won't be paying. I'll be able to fix you up, but you'll have to bill me as a private citizen. If you get somewhere, can you forward the file to my email?"

"It's okay, Daria." Ted sized up the camera, weighing it in his hand. "I've never had to do a retrieval on a digital camera of this vintage. This will be _fun._ "

_Everyone around me has a majorly skewed definition of fun._

Daria closed her laptop as the toaster popped up her sugar tart. It was a late breakfast. Or early lunch. Whatever. She needed to get out of this apartment and get back into a routine, or the transformation to unemployed slacker would be complete.

She vaguely wondered back to the talk-show job offer. What could it hurt, right?

_Only your self-respect._

Daria drummed her fingers on the countertop, pushing her glasses further up her nose. That's when she saw it.

The folder with all her research and the Angry Dave columns had been moved, so slightly that Daria at first wondered whether she had been imagining it. But no, it was slightly askew, her backpack resting on top innocently, as if everything was the same as it always was.

The newspaper, with the story about their radio play...

And the story on the first page.

_Mayoral Frontrunner Returns from Business Trip-_

"Oh, _God_."

* * *

There were only two people in this world that could drive Daria Morgendorffer genuinely frantic. One of them was her all-too-aware niece Lex. And the other was her best friend who attracted trouble wherever she went, and right now was going to make arguably the greatest mistake of her life.

Jane's phone was off. In a world where missing one call from an art dealer could set you back thousands of dollars, Jane's phone was always on.

_Janey would go after Sloane with a crowbar._

Daria burst into Trent's room without a second thought.

_You know she would._

Trent had been sleeping with a pillow over his head to block out the few beams of sunlight that managed to worm their way around the blackout curtains, but jerked awake when Daria stormed into the room. He blinked at her in confusion for a minute before scowling.

"This better be because Lawndale is about to fall into a supervolcano or something."

_I'll do you one better._

"I think Jane's about to kill Tom Sloane."

He bolted upright. Staring at her like he was hearing her words, but not comprehending their meaning.

"What?"

"She's missing, and her cell is turned off."

"That's hardly indicative of ill-intent, Daria." His eyes narrowed. Any other time Daria would have shot back that she was surprised he knew a big word like _indicative_ well-enough to use it in a sentence, but it was like her brain was filled with static.

"My notes have been moved."

That got through to him.

"You left your notes _just lying around_?"

"I did not leave them _just lying around_." Daria scowled. "She's gone through my bag. Jane knew there was something we weren't telling her, and Jane likes to _know_."

Trent slipped a t-shirt on over his sweatpants, leaving his wrist supports on.

"She's gone after Sloane."

"Dammit, I knew I should have put a tracker on her phone." Daria thumped her thigh, angry at herself.

"It only works unless the cell's on."

"Or unless you're the evil overlords of Apple." Her eyes narrowed. "Surely Jane wouldn't go directly to Grace, Sloane & Page."

"Nah, she'd have more sense than that." Trent said.

"More sense than- this is Jane!"

"And Jane isn't an idiot. Call the office and get a lock on where Tom is just so we know he isn't gonna bite it anytime soon."

 _Of course._ Daria started to Google the phone number when she stopped. "But if I do that, that will just muddy everything with your cop friend even more."

"Daria, this is my _sister_!"

Daria looked down at her phone. And then it occurred to her.

"The paper says Tom just got back from a business trip out of state." She said. "He wouldn't go to work the very next day. Jetlag is a bitch, I know."

"So where would an entitled rich jetsetter go the day after he's got into town?" Trent asked.

* * *

The hideous Zeemobile stopped abruptly in front of the rolling greens of Lawndale Golf Course.

Flush against land owned by the Country Club, for the last ten years at least the course had been resisting merger attempts by the well-to-do. Daria and Trent avoided the richy-rich set as they walked, scanning the grounds for Jane or Tom. Daria didn't know how much of a head start Jane had over them, all she knew was the plate Jane had used for her scrambled eggs still had residual heat.

The two of them walked into the clubhouse, Trent in his sweatpants and Daria in her threadbare skirt, and every eye turned to them like it was a scene out of a western. A moment later, they all turned back to what they had been doing in the first place, dismissing them as _poor_.

"D'you, y'know, want to start asking around?" Trent asked in a low voice.

"I suppose we'll have to."

That was when none other than Stephen Grace and Kirk Page entered, both of them in loud golfing pants and cashmere sweaters that probably cost more than a whole month of Daria's rent. They both stopped talking when they saw Daria, and stared awkwardly while trying to pretend that they weren't staring awkwardly.

"Ms Morgendorffer." Kirk was the first to speak.

"Nice to see you, Daria." Grace said, the more amicable of the two. "If you're here for a punch-up, Tom's on the 18th hole. Just let me get my camera first."

"I'm not here to maim anyone today." Daria said. "I'm just looking for a friend who passed through, but it looks like she's left me high and dry. We really should get going."

"At least join us for a drink first." Grace said. "You and your friend."

Both Trent and Kirk's faces said _no way in hell._

"That's kind of you, but I'm not really in the mood for any brownnosing today, thank you."

All joviality fell away. "Just so you know, I really _am_ sorry I didn't put a stop to Tom's idiocy the other night."

"You shouldn't have needed to stop Tom's idiocy. That's _Tom's_ responsibility." Daria said sharply. "It's been a pleasure, gentlemen-" _in Hell - "_ But we really need to get going."

"Oh, of course."

* * *

At first glance, the eighteenth hole seemed deserted, most golfers having returned to the clubhouse for lunch.

Ah, crap.

And then Daria saw them, Jane and Tom obviously in a heated discussion, Tom leaning casually against his golf bag while Jane gripped a club like she was itching to break it over his head.

"Jane!"

Jane looked up at her brother's voice. "What are you doing here?"

"What are _you_ doing here?" Trent retorted. "We're leaving. Now."

Tom turned to Trent, and there was an ugly sneer on his face. "You should do more to control your women, Lane-"

At that, Jane lunged at Tom, ready to take a swing with the golf club. "You fucking-!"

Trent lurched forward, seizing her tight around the waist and dragging her back. Tom watched the antics with an amused look on his face like he was an emperor about to throw the Christians to the lions.

"-because at this rate, I _will_ have no other choice than to proceed with legal action."

"What the hell happened to you?" Daria whispered. In her pocket, her cell phone pinged at her, informing her she had just received an email. "Go ahead." Her voice sharpened. "Take us to court. And then everything can come out, the crash, your dad covering Trent's medical expenses, the journalist your father _ruined_ to keep your name from being splashed across the media, all of it."

At her words, an uncertain look flashed across Tom's face.

"You _hurt_ my brother." Jane's voice was harsh.

"If you're so certain of that, you should have brought me to court years ago!"

"And watch you weasel out of any responsibility like you always do?!" Jane shouted. "Now you're going down!"

Daria's phone pinged again, in an electronic version of _pick me up, pick me up, it's important._ On autopilot, she retrieved the small device and opened her emails.

"I _will_ have you brought up on intimidation charges!"

"Janey, use your _brain_." Trent pleaded. "This will destroy you! What about _Thor_?"

At that, Jane did stop, realising she hadn't thought of her fiancé even once. "Oh, God. This is never going to end, is it?" Dropping her club, she threw herself into her brother's arms. "This is _never_ going to _end_."

"Come on, let's get out of here."

"No one's going _anywhere_." Tom snapped.

Trent looked up over Jane's head at Tom. His dark expression was shot through with hate, an expression that Daria honestly found a little unnerving on someone as easygoing as Trent Lane. The world had been turned on its ear.

"I'm taking the girls, and _you're_ not going to stop me."

Tom took a menacing step forward. It didn't have the intimidation effect that he was after as he was wearing brightly-coloured checked golfing pants and Trent was almost a foot taller than him.

"Your deranged sister comes here and attacks me, your girlfriend starts mouthing off about my father, and _you_ think you're all just going to walk on out of here?"

"Yes, I think we're all just going to walk on out of here." Trent snapped, fingers flexing like he itched for Tom to try and physically restrain him.

"I'm calling the police, and I will have you escorted off in handcuffs!"

"Go ahead, you toad," Jane sneered.

_CRASH!_

The three of them looked around, searching for the source of the tinny screeching.

Daria held up her iPhone.

Playing the video Ted had just sent her.

 _"_ _Oh my God!"_ A girl was shrieking. _"You just hit him!"_

_"_ _Oh my God, oh my God-"_

_"_ _Tom, where are you going?"_

_"_ _We have to help, we have to call the cops-"_

_"_ _I'll tell you what we do. We take the truck back to where it was and then go home like nothing happened-"_

_"_ _He could be dead before anyone finds him!"_

_"_ _Look at the car! He's probably dead already!"_

Daria paused the video. _Desperate times and all that._ "Nothing happened." She said calmly. "We met up, talked, and left. Nothing happened. We're going to leave now."

Tom stared at her, lost for words, knowing that he had been outmanoeuvred, surprised that she could be that mercenary. "How did you-?" And then a look of pure panic began to set in. "What are you going to do with the-"

"None of your business."

"You can't-"

"I do what I want." She said coldly.

In the blink of an eye all the egotism and arrogance seemed to drain out of him. "I have money." Tom blurted, in a final gamble that managed to make Daria despise him even more. She stared long and hard at him before she looked at Jane and Trent, Trent hovering close to his sister in case she made another attempt to bean Tom. His face was pale, jaw set stubbornly, and Daria could tell by the way he was holding himself that after tackling Jane his hands were starting to hurt. Brilliant. The icing on the cake.

"We're going."

"No one's going anywhere."

Officer Seth Sherman stepped onto the 18th hole, two other officers behind him. Daria tensed.

"One of the other golfers reported shouting. Lane. Ms Lane. Ms Morgendorffer. Funny seeing you here." The officer greeted idly, hands in his pockets, like they'd just happened to meet at the checkout counter at the 7-Eleven. Nothing to see here, move along.

"Funny." Daria said. "Jane was working on her swing."

The officer's look said _I bet._

"Everything is fine, officer." Tom said smoothly, transitioning suddenly from the entitled brat to the stately politician in the blink of an eye. "Just a little disagreement between old friends, nothing more."

Seth's gaze switched to Tom, and Daria could see his eyes harden. "Mr Sloane. That's a nice Jeep Cherokee you've got in the parking lot."

"Thank you." His look said _what the hell?_

"Perhaps you would like to come down to the station and explain why there are purple paint chips that match the colouring of a particular Mini Cooper in your bull-bar?"

Tom looked even more confused. "I'd rather not. I've got quite a few other jobs I need to get done by the end of today-"

Seth's expression got even more wintry. "You misunderstand me, Mr Sloane. That's not a request."

One of the other officers stepped up to Tom with a pair of cuffs in hand.

"Thomas Sloane, you are under arrest for intimidation and attempted murder. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law."

* * *

The police interviewed each of them together and separately, and Daria found herself going over, yet again, her run in with Tom leading up to the standoff at La Rennard, and the incident on Glendale Hill. Only this time, she went into her investigation into the truth, tracking down Neil Blackwood and David Sorenson, Elsie Sloane and the video, and handed a copy of the recording to the LPD.

Jane was out in the hallway, waiting for her, while Trent was still in the interview room. Daria guessed that he was going over everything with the officers from the very beginning.

Daria sat down beside her friend.

"Hey."

"Yo."

"Hell of a day."

"Yeah."

"It's over now."

"I guess."

Daria looked at her. "Are you okay?"

"A-okay. I mean, why would _I_ of all people have a problem with my brother and my best friend keeping this entirely earth-shattering secret from me, letting my own anger and frustration build up until it ripped out of me like something from _Alien_?"

"I'm sorry, Jane."

"What I don't get is that you chipped me for not telling you about the accident, but you keep something like _this_ from me."

Her eyes narrowed. "Because instead of outright confrontation like an adult, it's _always_ better to bottle up your resentment until you detonate like a nuclear warhead."

Jane snorted. "You should talk, Ms Passive-Aggressive."

Daria sighed. "What was I supposed to say? 'Hey, Jane, someone's trying to kill me and Trent because I stuck my nose in the wrong place'?"

"That would have been a good start."

"Jane-"

"I know, you're sorry, etcetera, etcetera." Jane looked at her hands between her knees. "I guess I was feeling a little threatened."

"What? They have Tom now, he's not going to-"

"No, I meant..." Jane groped for her words. "You're my best friend, Daria, but it was like you had... replaced me with my brother."

"What? That's absurd."

"I know, but I'm a fragile little flower inside." Jane said. Daria smirked. "I'm glad that you and Trent are hitting it off, I am, but it's making me feel a little left behind. Maybe it would be different if Thor was here."

"Jane, no matter what happens, there's going to be things I won't be able to tell Trent, and I'm going to need my best friend there to complain to." Daria said. "Look at us. These two weeks were supposed to be about me unwinding and us reconnecting as friends."

"Hey, a wise man once said ' _i_ _t's all uphill from here'_."

"Was that the same guy that said 'it's all good fun until someone loses an eye'?"

"I think he was the one up the creek without a paddle." Jane said.

"When the wheels came off."

"Flying blind into a mountain."

"The light at the end of the tunnel is an oncoming train."

The two of them exchanged smirks as Trent and Seth joined them at the seats.

"Hey." Trent said.

"Hey." Jane replied.

"You okay?"

"Yeah. You?"

"Yeah."

Daria rolled her eyes. Lanes.

"So, what happens now?" Jane asked Seth. "Do we just sit around and wait for the court case?"

"Pretty much." The officer said. "You've given your statements, but be prepared for the Sloane lawyers to try to pick you apart. We've matched the paint chips to the damage on the back of the Mini, and that's a tangible link to the circumstantial evidence, tying everything neatly together. Thanks to you, Ms Morgendorffer."

Daria blushed.

"And what happens if Tom really does try to sue me?" Jane asked uncertainly.

"I would be very surprised if the case would even get to court. You confronted the man that you had recently discovered had crippled your brother. No jury would convict."

Jane slumped a little in relief. Trent winced at the word _crippled_.

"And that's it?" Daria said. "It's over. Just like that? Because he forgot to wash his car?"

"Al Capone was caught on tax evasion. Ted Bundy was arrested because an officer saw burglary tools on the backseat of his VW. The Son of Sam was tracked down through a parking ticket." Seth said. "Sometimes, Ms Morgendorffer, we get thrown an easy one."

"Sometimes." Daria murmured.

He arched an eyebrow. "But it might be a wise idea to sort out a lawyer. Just in case."

* * *

"I'm going to hibernate for about ten years."

"Don't do it yet. We'll have to drag you back to the apartment."

Daria knocked on the door, before stepping into the house, the Lanes behind her.

"Hi, Dad."

"Hey, kiddo." Her father said distractedly from the couch as he thumbed through the TV guide, his brow furrowed like it was written in Urdu. Then his head rose, immediately snapping back to full attention.

"Daria!" Jake scrambled off the couch and pulled her into a bone-cracking hug. "Gosh, you're alright. You're fine."

"Dad. My collarbone. I kind of need it."

"Oh." He released her before grasping her shoulders firmly. "I'm just so relieved, sweetie. It's all over the radio."

"What's all over the radio?"

"Tom Sloane's arrest! He tried to _kill_ you!"

Daria glared at Trent.

He shrugged. "I can tell Z93 what to report, but I don't control the other station."

"And you're fine too, pal!" Jake took a step to hug Trent, before stopping. His voice became quite serious. "How are _you_ going, big fella?"

Trent shrugged, uncomfortable.

"Ah, cool, I guess."

Jane sniggered at her brother's awkwardness.

"Dad, is Mom home yet?"

"What?"

"We need to talk to Mom." Daria said. "And I need the box."

"Oh." Jake's face turned grave. "I'll get it. Helen, honey, it's Daria!"

* * *

Daria _had_ offered the box to Seth, but all of David Sorensen's research the police could find themselves. The officer was going to send someone around in the morning to collect it.

Which gave them time.

Helen Morgendorffer may have been a corporate lawyer, but in a situation like this, there was no one's opinion that Daria trusted more. In hindsight, she probably should have gone to her mother at the very beginning, even though the lawyer was generally the natural enemy of the crusading reporter.

She watched her read through David Sorensen's notes, looking stern, her face folded into a frown. Finally she closed the last notebook and sat back, legs crossed at the ankle.

"Well?" Daria asked. "Exactly how tight is the case against Tom?"

"The officer was right, everything is circumstantial."

Daria closed her eyes.

"Until the positive identification of the vehicle. That ties everything together."

"So there's a chance of us getting out of this unscathed?" Jane asked.

"Every chance." Helen said. "One of our newest junior partners is a criminal defence lawyer, I'll give him a call and prep him on the situation, and you can go and see him when you're ready."

"Who's the partner?"

"Robert Roberts. He's rather monosyllabic, but when he gets going he's a legend in the courtroom." Helen said. "I believe you knew him in High School."

"Did we know a Robert in High School?" Jane asked.

_I should have known this wasn't a real date when he kept calling me Darcy. And ma'am._

"Yes, we did." Daria said.

And he's now a criminal defence lawyer.

_Who woulda thunk it._

Helen put the last notebook down.

"And I have to say that I'm very disappointed in _you_ , young man."

Trent straightened in confusion. "What?"

"Come again?" Jane said.

Helen fixed her laser-like gaze on Trent. "You should have brought this to me years ago, Trent. We could have taken the Sloanes for all they're _worth."_ There was a disturbing amount of relish in her voice as she pondered the possibility of what could have been.

Trent swallowed.

"Mom, your bloodthirsty side is showing." Daria said.

"I'm sorry, darling, but if Tom had been called to account back then, none of this would be happening now."

"He almost _killed_ you, Daria." Jake stressed.

"Yes, I haven't forgotten."

"Jake." Helen said. "Stop being rude and offer a drink to Jane and Trent."

"Oh, sure."

"That's not really-" Trent started. Jane elbowed him in the ribs.

"Yeah. We'll give you a hand, Jake."

The three of them vanished from the lounge room, leaving Daria looking awkwardly at her mother.

"How are you doing, sweetie?"

"Mom?"

"I mean, I do know what Tom meant to you once. How are you holding up?"

"I'm fine."

"Daria..."

"Mom, it's pretty obvious now that the guy I knew as a teenager is long gone. Maybe he's buried under all the arrogance and entitlement somewhere, but after all this, I'm not going to stick around to find out. Tom has done this to himself."

Helen was silent, waiting.

"Part of me feels... detached, like this is all happening to someone else." Daria admitted. "I'm beginning to think that all those years of believing that I'm slowly becoming a psychopath are coming to fruition."

"It's a common reaction to trauma and betrayal." Her mom said. "We all have our coping methods so we don't collapse in a wet heap."

"Thanks for the imagery, Mom."

"How are Jane and Trent?"

"Coping as well as you'd expect."

Judging from Helen's expression, her mom had caught Daria's unspoken message of _really not at all._ After all, Trent had had a massive panic attack only a couple of days before, and Jane had just tried to beat Tom senseless with a nine iron.

"It's all gone to shit."

"Daria, the thing about reaching rock bottom is that there's only one way to go from there, and that's up." Her mom said.

"I'm sure I could find a way to burrow deeper. Maybe stay there until the winter."

"Oh, Daria." Helen rolled her eyes.

Daria looked down at her hands in her lap.

"Mom? Can I ask you something?"

"Of course, dear."

She winced.

"It's kind of private."

Her mom perked up, like Daria had said the magic word.

"You can tell me anything, Daria, you know that." Her eyes were shining with the promise of Daria actually bestowing on her a gift of something about her daughter's private life.

Daria frowned.

"Could you please stop looking like you're a spaniel and I'm about to give you a liver treat?"

"Daria."

"Okay, I can't believe I'm about to ask this, but how did you know you were... falling for Dad?"

Helen's eyes widened. "Daria! Have you met someone?"

"You know what, I shouldn't have asked. I seem to be checking my better judgement a lot these days."

"Sweetie, I'm happy that you chose to share that with me. This is excellent news."

"Don't get ahead of yourself, it's only new."

"So, is it anyone I know? You should have him over for Christmas."

Daria frowned. "Slow down, eager beaver."

"You've only been back here for two weeks, so... Sweetie, you haven't met anyone else over the internet, have you? They're all liars and perverts there. Chris at work was sending dirty pictures to a twentysomething girl in Chicago only to find out that she was really a 56 year old man still living in his mother's basement."

"Mom! While you and your work colleagues are no doubt walking cautionary tales on the evils and decadence of modern society, I can assure you that he's very real and probably not a space alien or weasels controlling a robotic suit, though I am yet to find myself in the position to make a thorough examination." Daria said. "Am I ever going to get an answer from you on my original enquiry, or not?"

"Oh. Yes, of course." Helen looked at her knees, a frown etched in her forehead like it was a question she hadn't really thought about. "Falling in love with your dad wasn't an easy thing. Sometimes I _still_ ask myself why it happened to me. He's a sweetheart, but sometimes he says or does something so _stupid_ I just want to grab him and shake all the dumb _out_." Her hands formed claws around an invisible neck, illustrating her homicidal impulses.

"Um, Mom? Just so you know, not particularly inspiring."

Helen took a deep breath, held it for a moment, and then smiled. "But sweetie, no matter how insane your father drives me, for some reason I still want to be around him. His brand of crazy is my brand of crazy. And that's how I realised I was in love."

"That's actually... kind of nice."

She arched an eyebrow. "I may not be a typical romantic, Daria, but I have my moments."

"Coffee, honey?" Jake emerged from the kitchen, bearing a tray before him, with steaming mugs and cookies.

"Did you travel all the way to Brazil for the beans?" Daria asked.

"All 500,000 miles on horseback." Jane said. "And a few more on a llama."

"How did you get across the ocean?"

"The llama wore water wings." Jane shrugged.


	16. Chapter 16

"What are all those cars for, d'you suppose?"

"I'd say reporters."

"Already?"

"It doesn't take long." Daria said. "Death and destruction are our bread and butter."

As soon as they saw the Zeemobile ( _because how could you not see it_ ), the reporters descended. Shaken but determined, Frank was back on security duty, and he and two of the sound engineers blocked the truck as Daria, Jane, and Trent walked into the station.

"Vultures." Jane said.

"Expect them for a while." Daria replied. "Even after charges are laid, they're going to be around a while to try and score some kind of exclusive, to try and get at least one soundbite that they can pad out into a puff peice."

" _If_ charges are laid." Trent growled.

Jane nudged his arm. "Stop being so sour, big brother. So, who do we give our big exclusive to?"

"Ed here has been calling me for the last hour to try and get an interview." Trent said. "Said it's his 'ticket out of hicksville', or whatever."

"No interviews until the case goes to court." Daria said sternly. "We could compromise a jury."

Jane and Trent pretended to look like they knew what she was talking about. "Right."

"But after the court case I already know who I'm giving my exclusive to."

"Who?"

"David Sorenson."

Jane nodded.

"Good choice."

* * *

Daria, Trent and Stacy sat around the mixing table, headphones on and ready for the third instalment of the radio play. Daria supposed she really should consider naming it, but in her head, it had always simply been The Radio Play. Naming it _now_ would throw off the whole process, and anyway, it gave it a whole retro 1960s feel. She had written the play in five Acts to be performed on each night. Act I was Discovery, the scales falling from Kit's eyes about this new miracle medication, and following in the footsteps of the supposedly dead Detective Sam Stone. Act II was Flight, the two of them being forced on the run, to protect Kit's family. Act III, that they were performing tonight, was Fight, the two of them struggling against the corruption and dragging all the secrets into the harsh light of day.

_So much for fiction._

Act IV was Red Herring, and Act V would be Ending. They were going to need to record V tomorrow after they did IV, so Stacy could simply play the sample, as Trent and Daria would be on a flight back to New York with Jane for her new installation at the gallery that night.

As Daria watched Trent and Stacy do their last checks of the equipment before they went live, she couldn't help but think. Big surprise.

Where was the Red Herring in _her_ story? There was something going on here that she wasn't seeing. Undoubtedly something so obvious that she'd be kicking herself over it later.

She could just feel it.

* * *

The apartment was absolutely silent. Early morning light was splashed across the living room, and pigeons crashed into the big bay windows trying to get to the leftover Chinese takeaway on the floor surrounding the TV from their impromptu midnight feast.

A phone started ringing.

Daria lurched up on the couch, her tangled hair falling into her eyes as she groped blindly for her cell. She squinted at the screen, before finally managing to divine that it wasn't hers that was ringing. Which was probably a good thing because she was inches away from putting it through the wall.

"Daria! Phone!" Jane called sleepily. She sat up straighter in the chair she had fallen asleep in. "Ow! Okay, too old to sleep upright anymore."

"Not mine."

"Trent, phone!"

Trent uncurled himself from around the pillow he had dragged onto the floor last night. "H'lo?"

As he listened, Daria could actually _see_ him waking up. Trent's eyes popped open like someone had doused him with a bucket of ice water and he sat up.

"What... when did that... okay, they're with me... okay... yeah, thanks for telling me, man."

He hung up, staring vacantly at his cell. Immediately awake, Daria and Jane stared at him.

"That was Seth, giving us a head's up." Trent said finally, in a heavy tone that said he wasn't surprised by the turn of events in the slightest. "Tom just made bail."

"What?" Jane demanded.

Daria sat there feeling numb, and she closed her eyes, not particularly shocked at the development. Angier Sloane had probably sent in his army of lawyers the moment Tom had flashed the Bat-signal. _Money makes the world go round._

Trent looked grim. "We're to call the station and our lawyer if any Sloane contacts us."

"What do we do now?"

Trent paused for a long moment.

"We go on." He said philosophically.

Later that morning, Trent, Jane and Daria spent almost two hours in a meeting with Helen and the junior partner she'd recommended. Robert was as tall and muscular and monosyllabic as Daria remembered, and he _better_ be a darn good lawyer, because he definitely wasn't getting paid by the word. Though, when he _did_ speak, there were no wasted words, which Daria found that she actually rather appreciated. There were so many people around her right now spouting random meaningless crap that it was rather refreshing to finally encounter someone who didn't mince their words.

After that, Daria was scheduled at another summit. She had put off meeting with the devil for too long. Now it was time to finally see her brother-in-law about the damn movie.

She managed to slip through the streets relatively unrecognised. It helped that the photos the media was currently splashing around were from her news-anchor-without-a-soul period instead of her current crusading-grassroots-reporter phase. Daria had never been to the set of _Vampiris Bay_ before, and she stepped into the reception area where a man with a plastic sheen to his forehead and who obviously didn't have his original nose sat behind a fancy chrome desk. He didn't look impressed when he saw her, and if he hadn't been doing his job, Daria was entirely sure that he would have pretended not to see her.

TV people.

"Hi. I had a two o'clock with Simon Bassingwaithe?"

The man consulted the computer before him, trying his hardest to actually look like a professional receptionist even though he was probably rehearsing lines in his head from the last haemorrhoid cream commercial he was cast in. "The Indomitable Ms M?"

_Simon, I'm going to kill you._

"I guess that's me."

"He's waiting for you."

Daria was led to a door marked _Vampiris Bay,_ and as she entered, she was aware of a line of young pretty girls waiting inside, all of them holding scripts. A few of them stared up at her as she entered, and a couple of them sneered at her thick glasses and combat boots, wondering whether she had either wandered in the wrong door by accident or was here to take the juice orders.

"Look at _her_." One of the girls said.

"We're auditioning the leading lady, not the ugly friend." Another of them said, in one of those stage whispers obviously meant to carry. Despite herself, Daria's lip curled slightly.

_Snobby skinny bitches._

"Ms Morgendorffer?" A handsome young man with a headset and clipboard came from the stage area, smiling at her. Daria's eyes narrowed.

"Yes."

"Ah, good. Excellent. Right, come this way!" Daria fought not to shy away. He was probably quite a nice young man, but perky people never did anything for her except raise her ire. "Simon, Luke and Henry are waiting for you before they begin."

That sounded ominous.

"Um, okay."

The girls stared at her, shocked, as the engineer led Daria through to the set, and despite herself she felt a certain self-centred smugness about it.

_Eat it, bimbos._

Simon was sitting on a director's chair beside Luke Shelby, an attractive leggy blonde man Simon had gone through drama school with who really belonged more on Broadway or as the sexy teacher at a city dance studio then in a poky little soap production house, and a rugged older man with a vague Anthony-Hopkins-as-Hannibal-Lecter air about him, and after a moment Daria recognised him as the lead actor of one of her favourite independent shows, _Murder for Pleasure and Profit._

Henry Hawthorne was also well known to those of Daria's generation as the over-the-top and entirely-too-gleeful announcer of _Sick, Sad World._

"Hi, Daria." Simon greeted, air-kissing her on the cheek. "You remember Luke. And this is Henry."

"Hi." Henry reached out to shake her hand and Daria's hand was dwarfed in Henry Hawthorne's massive paw. Seeing him on TV, you never really got a proper sense of his _presence._ Call her a nerd or a pathetic fangirl, but looking up at him, part of her was going all fluttery like she was actually meeting Poe, Hemmingway, Byron, or Dumbledore.

"Daria, I'm glad I finally get to meet you. I'm a big fan of your work. Simon sent me a portfolio of your pieces for the paper." Henry smiled at her, and it was like as if Michael Phelps had said he was a fan of her breaststroke. "And your script, _stunning."_

"Um, thank you." Daria managed to tear her gaze away from Henry to look curiously at Simon.

"Henry's signed on as Pierre Devereux." He elaborated. Devereux was Melody Powers' ex-MI6 boss, who'd moonlighted for the KGB at the height of the Cold War. Or, well, he _had_ been until there was that nasty situation with that nuclear warhead and the Mujahedeen. Daria squinted at him, sizing him up against her mental picture of the hard grizzled double-agent who could take you out for a classy and romantic dinner and a French wine tasting, and then beat you to death with the bottle later.

"Yeah, I can see that."

"Henry is going to read the lines with our Melodys." Luke said.

"This is an audition?" Daria's brows rose.

"You would know that if you occasionally looked at your email or answered your phone." Simon said archly. She just stared back at him.

"I don't know if you've been keeping up with current events, but I've been a _little_ busy this week."

Luke nudged Simon's shoulder. "Open mouth, insert foot, buddy."

"You're getting writing credit whether you continue with the project or not, but I thought you may want to have some input into who would be our Melody." Simon said. Daria's expression softened.

"Thanks, Simon."

"No problem."

Script in hand, she sat on her own director's chair between Simon and Luke, Henry waiting on the stage for their first Melody. "Is this a bad time to ask about my script fee?"

Simon, of course, pretended not to hear her.

"What about merchandising rights?"

As lead anchor and one of the public faces of NNYK, Daria had participated in her share of panel interviews and auditions through the years. The audition she and her co-anchor Percy had attended for the position of the new weather girl got particularly ugly, so much so that Daria had been considering throwing a folding chair onto the set and chanting _finish 'im._

Luke looked down at his clipboard.

"Tina Rockman."

The first leggy girl to walk in was the one that had stage whispered about not casting the ugly friend. As the woman spotted Daria sitting between the two men with a clipboard of her own, she blanched. Daria smiled smugly to herself and very deliberately placed a mark against Tina's name, making sure the woman could see. Maybe it was a little petty, but hell, she was on the set of a soap opera, being petty was all but expected. As the morning dragged on, Daria was getting to the point that she couldn't believe that there were honestly this many unemployed actresses in Lawndale. Between the three of them, they had ferreted out a couple of possibilities, but as yet no one had jumped out at them as Melody Powers. At this rate they'd have to draw names from a hat, or give the girls _Survivor_ -esque challenges to find out exactly who was the most desperate for the job.

Daria had to remind herself that it was a pretty good casting turnout for an independent film, and a lot of that was due to Simon's name. Other independent films, you were lucky if the stars could read the cue cards. The last girl had left, and they were in the process of folding everything up when there was a clatter from outside the studio, and a familiar blonde head peered around the door.

"Have I missed the auditions? Getting a taxi from the airport was _impossible_!"

"What's your name, miss?" Luke asked.

And Daria found herself looking at Brittany Taylor.

"Brittany." Daria could almost imagine her saying _but I was thinking of changing it to Blue_. "Brittany Taylor."

"I'm sorry, Miss Taylor, I'm afraid we're finished for the day." Luke said. Yes, he was definitely a small-town boy. If he had been a producer anywhere else he would have just gone _tough luck, kid, learn to be on time._

"I know, I'm _so_ sorry, but if you can give me a chance, you won't regret it!"

Looking at Simon and Luke, Daria could tell that the two of them had seen the bubbly perky blonde twisting the ends of her hair nervously, juxtaposed that to the image of the female James Bond-type they were casting, and immediately went _no_.

"Please?" Brittany asked meekly. "I just, I just, I think if I'm cast as the stupid blonde bimbo one more time, I'm going to explode! And if some slime wannabe Harvey Weinstein-type tries the casting couch line again, I may actually _knife_ someone!"

Daria, Simon, Luke and Henry just wordlessly stared at her. After a moment Brittany seemed to get herself back under control, suddenly breaking into a sunny smile like her brief moment of psychosis never happened.

"Sorry." She chirped gain. "Sometimes you just have to _vent_ , you know?"

Luke exchanged a nervous look with Simon.

"I was just really hoping to get in, to get, like, a _real, proper, serious_ role, something I can take to the agents." Brittany said. "So I'm not, like a _joke_."

Daria wouldn't have exactly pegged being cast as an amoral promiscuous deep-cover intelligence agent in a dark parody of _Get Smart_ as a _serious_ role, but she knew all about being wanted to be taken seriously for your own talent. And Hell must have been freezing over, because she felt suddenly defensive of Brittany.

"We can hear one more." Daria looked challengingly at her brother-in-law.

He blew out a breath. "Hell, why not. Let's hear what you've got."

Brittany shot Daria a quick smile, pulling out a creased page of the script.

"Henry, from the top." Luke said.

"Melody." Henry's voice was grave and Ian McKellen-esque, Gandalf telling Frodo that the One Ring can only be destroyed in the fires of Mount Doom. "You will never know how sorry I am, but it was the only way I could protect you."

Daria stared as Brittany's face transformed. She could practically see the bubbly perkiness bleed out of her. The next moment she took a bold step forward and poked Henry in the chest.

"Protect us?" She demanded, her voice hard. "I've had enough of you _protecting_ us."

"What does that mean?"

"You had a job to do, and you let the contract _get_ _away_." Daria blinked at the contempt in Brittany's voice. "And because of that my team is dead. My _friends_ are dead."

"And I am so-"

"Ha!" She cut him off. "You're sorry! You weren't there holding a dying man's hand! You weren't there lying to a widow about how her husband died. _What would you know_!" Brittany threw her hands up, and spun on her heel, staring at the floor like she was thinking hard. Finally she looked up, like she had resolved herself to something.

"I'm going."

Henry frowned. "You can't go after Moriarty."

Brittany sneered at him. "If you had done your damn job in the first place, I wouldn't have to."

"He'll kill you!"

"If I don't stop him he'll kill a lot of people!"

Simon and Luke were both staring, gobsmacked, watching this little blonde thing acting her heart out. If Daria had thought that the world had gone mad before, now it _really_ didn't make a lick of sense.

Brittany held out her hand imploringly. "Come with me, Pierre."

"And cut!" Luke said. "Very good, Miss Taylor."

Brittany gave a sweet smile, snapping out of her acting headspace and once again twirling the ends of her hair like her just transforming into Melody had never happened and they'd all just been participants in a mass hallucination. Which, honestly, wasn't exactly out of the realms of probability.

Simon and Luke leaned toward Daria. "What do you think?" Simon asked.

"Most promising so far." Luke's eyes hovered on Brittany as she talked to Henry, sizing her up with a costumer's eye like he was working out exactly how hard it would be to transform her into a superspy.

"She can act." Daria tried to keep the amazement from her voice, she really did. "She really threw herself into the character."

"Yeah." Simon said. "We'd have to tamper down the... assets, somehow."

"Mm." Luke murmured. "That's what Hollywood tape is for, you know."

Daria tilted an eyebrow. "Is there enough Hollywood tape in Hollywood for _her_?"

"We can make it work."

The three of them sat back.

"Miss Taylor." Simon said. "When can you start?"

And Brittany beamed.

* * *

Finally after the interminable repetitiveness of this morning, Daria headed to her parents' house, the newspaper under her arm and a coffee carrier in hand. Her mother was at work, but she could at least drop in and have a coffee with her dad. Her father's car was in the drive, and Jake's ass was hanging out from under the hood.

"Nice plumber's crack, Dad."

Jake's head shot up so fast that he cracked the back of his skull on the raised hood, and swore.

" _Father_ , language."

He looked up at her ruefully, rubbing the back of his head. "Hey, sweetie."

"Mom won't be happy if you kill the car."

"Tell me about it. Damn spark plugs."

"Wouldn't it be easier just to take it to the garage?"

Jake grunted. "Money-grubbing pig rip-off merchants."

"You haven't started another feud, have you? You've already been blacklisted at the video store. There will be no service providers left in the county by the time you're finished."

"Me? No." He dropped the hood. "It's not my fault people are idiots."

And that was such a _Morgendorffer_ thing to say that Daria couldn't help but smile.

"Caramel macchiato?"

"Thanks, kiddo."

The two of them sat on the curb in front of the house, and Daria smoothed the Lawndale Sun-Herald across her knees. Across the page was a bold headline.

_Sloane Faces Criminal Proceedings_

Below that was a smaller article that pleased Daria to no end.

_Lawndale Sun-Herald Welcomes Back Angry Dave!_

"Has Seth sent anyone over for the box yet?"

"Not yet." Jake sipped his coffee. "That's why I'm hangin' around."

"Because you have _so_ many other things to do."

"You've gotten narky in your old age." Her dad grinned at her.

Daria's lips quirked in a smirk. "Cheeky."

"How are you, Daria?" Jake asked seriously.

"Dad. I'm _fine_."

His expression said _you're bullshitting no one, kid._

"How's Lex doing?" Daria changed the subject.

Her dad sipped his coffee. "You've made her popular."

"What?"

"Yeah, she says that all the other kids keep asking her about you." Jake grinned proudly. "Every time she's asked, she makes up another story. That you were an undercover cop. That you're a CIA agent, stuff like that."

"The apple doesn't fall far from the crazy tree."

"Tell me about it."

"Hey!"

"Your sister and brother-in-law are in marriage counselling."

"Because that worked wonders for you and Mom."

"Hey, we're still married."

She raised an eyebrow. "Point."

The two of them sat in silence for a moment.

"Dad?"

"Kiddo?"

"Thanks for... you know."

There was no hesitation at all in his answer. "I wouldn't want to be anywhere else, you know that, Daria."

Daria looked off into the distance, finally coming to a resolution about something that had been coming for a long time. "I'm not going back to the anchor job."

Jake frowned. "What are you going to do?"

"Reporting. Old-school investigative journalism." Daria said. "I love my writing, but this has shown me that my, my _calling_ , I guess-" _my God, could I sound any more pretentious?_ "It's not in TV. It maybe never was."

"I could have told you that, sweetie."

Daria looked at her dad.

"Kiddo, you're a crusader." Jake said. "The problem was that you caved to the system. You're not _like_ everyone else. You never were."

Daria frowned. "Was I exceptionally unobservant or were you always this insightful?"

"I've been reading a lot of self-help books lately."

"Are they doing anything?"

"Don't know. I haven't managed to finish one yet."

She snorted.

"It's all going to be over soon." Jake said.

That was when the smoke alarm Helen had insisted on after Jake had almost burned down the house the first time all those years ago stared wailing. The two of them stared back towards the house in shock as smoke wafted out the front door.

_Over, my ass._

* * *

The fire had been stared in Jake and Helen's bedroom. The two of them went up with the fire chief and Officer Seth Sherman, and Daria stared at dismay at what was beyond. Her parents' wardrobe had been flung open, and pulled out of where it had been stashed at the bottom under a chenille throw was David Sorensen's archive box, the contents a blackened mush.

"Gasoline." The fire chief said. "I doubt the contents will be retrievable."

"But why would someone destroy the notes?" Daria wondered aloud. "Apart from the video, all David's research is already public record."

_There must have been something else in the box._

_Where is the Red Herring?_

"I'll take it to the lab." Seth said. "See whether anything is recoverable."

While Daria felt dismayed, her dad looked strangely optimistic for the situation at hand.

"It's okay, sweetie."

Jake disappeared into the en suite, and Daria watched him in confusion as he retrieved two stuffed plastic bags from under the sink, behind the toilet paper and the pipes. He brandished them proudly.

Daria and Seth stared at him in confusion.

"I just... when we came back from Mirage, I was a _teensy bit_ paranoid." Jake said, setting the bags down at the officer's feet. "So I took everything out and filled the box with newspapers!"

As everyone stared at him, her dad started to look a little anxious, like he may have done something wrong.

"Dad." Daria said. "That was absolutely _brilliant_."

* * *

She couldn't help watching the video yet again, sure that she was missing something that would prove crucial. Daria pressed _play_ on her laptop.

There was something about watching spoilt rich kids partying that destroyed any last scrap of compassion for humanity she had left. There was no subtlety at all in how they had lifted the pickup. Someone had smashed in the driver's side window with a rock before one of the girls giggled and pointed out that the keys were in the ignition the whole time.

_"Jesus, Tom, put your damn foot on it."_ Mark Page was in the passenger's seat, his head hanging out the window like an excited puppy. His blown pupils told Daria that he was quite obviously on something. _"You're creeping along like a little old lady."_

Tom Sloane was behind the wheel, his face close to the windscreen and carefully trundling along in that carefully deliberate way of a drunk trying his hardest not to get pulled over by the police.

_"We just stole a truck and I'm drunk."_ Tom said. _"Let's just wave a bigger red flag to the cops, why don't we."_

_"Don't be so cautious, grandma."_ Mark slid across the bench seat in the cabin, and before Tom could react, he put his foot over Tom's on the accelerator.

The pickup jerked forward before he managed to get the vehicle back under control. _"What the fuck are you doing?"_ Tom bleated.

Mark and the others burst into laughter. _"You're such a pussy, man!"_

No matter how many times she watched the video, Daria hated the next bit.

Mark jokingly trod on the accelerator again. And then the truck started into a slide that Tom couldn't stop as much as he tried.

_CRASH!_

The camera angle changed as it flew from the girl's hands, landing upside-down on the dashboard. For a long moment there was nothing but screaming metal and wailing brakes, the picture jerking and stuttering around with the sudden impact.

And then the screaming started.

_"Oh my God!"_ A girl started wailing. _"You just hit him!"_

One of the other girls was gripping her neck, blood dripping down from a broken nose, hyperventilating. _"Oh my God, oh my God-"_

_"Tom, where are you going?"_

_"We have to help, we have to call the cops-"_ Tom jiggled the handle, like he had forgotten how it worked. Finally he managed to stumble out onto the street, almost falling to his knees, staring at the other car. The force of the impact had pushed both vehicles backwards from the intersection, the big truck relatively intact, but the old Plymouth's whole front cabin was almost entirely obliterated.

Mark followed him and grabbed his arm, suddenly completely sober, cuts on his face and blood in his eyes. _"I'll tell you what we do. We take the truck back to where it was and then go home like nothing happened-"_

Tom stared at his friend like he couldn't believe what he was hearing. _"He could be dead before anyone finds him!"_

_"Look at the_ _car!"_ Mark roared back. _"He's probably dead already!"_

_"Who_ are _you?"_ Tom demanded. _"Let me go, asshole!"_ He tore his arm from Mark and stumbled through sheared-off metal and plastic to get to the other car. That was when Tom stared closely, and Daria could tell by him suddenly going rigid that recognition had hit.

_"Oh my God."_ He wrenched at the driver's door. Nothing budged. _"Trent?!"_

_"You_ know _him?!"_

_"Call an ambulance!"_ Tom bellowed at one of the girls. His gaze switched to the Plymouth, panicking, not sure what he should do now. Daria was ridiculously glad that the camera was at slightly the wrong angle that she couldn't actually see into the car. That would probably be too much for her, if she could actually _see_ Trent fighting for life. _"You're going to be okay, man. God, you're going to be okay."_

One of the girls was on the phone, speaking to a dispatch officer with a shaking voice. Daria's gaze switched to Mark, who had _also_ pulled his cell out. Over the sounds of nonsensical shouting and approaching sirens, she could hardly manage to make out his side of the conversation. She fiddled with the levels as much as she could.

He was not calling 911, tat Daria knew for sure.

_Who are you calling, Mr Page?_

_"...I don't know... it was Tom, not me... what do we do?... isn't that illegal?... we can't... okay, okay."_

As the EMTs pulled up, followed by the police, Mark gathered his friends together.

_"They can't convict us if we each say someone else did it."_

Tom stared at Mark like he had never seen him before. _"What?!"_

_"Do you want to go to prison?!"_ Mark roared.

A low battery icon flashed in the corner before the camera flickered out.

_Who did you call, Mr Page?_

Daria reached back into her laptop bag, and with a frown, she withdrew a yellow floppy disk.

The floppy disk that had been sitting at the bottom of David Sorensen's archive box.

"Hm."

* * *

Act IV, Red Herring, went smoothly, and Daria watched Trent and Stacy start organising things for the recording of Act V. All was going well until there was a commotion from down the hall. Frank the security guy was shouting something. The three of them looked up the moment the door to the sound booth popped open.

And Tom Sloane was standing there, in jeans and a sweatshirt, looking flustered and tired.

"I need to talk to you."

It was such a shock that for a moment, the three of them didn't react. And then Stacy popped up to her feet.

"What are _you_ doing here?" There was such venom in her voice that it made Daria start.

Frank pushed into the room a moment later, his face red with fury. "Get out." He demanded. "I'm calling the police."

Tom ignored both of them, taking a step toward Daria and Trent. Frank grabbed at his arm, but he was brushed off.

"Please, just give me two minutes."

"Two minutes for what?" Daria asked.

"To explain."

"Is there anything _left_ to explain?"

"I didn't do it," Tom implored.

"Didn't do _what_ , exactly?"

"I didn't try to kill you!"

"The first time or the second time?" It was the first time Trent had spoken, and he was staring at Tom with a strange detachment in his eyes. Tom flinched like Trent had hit him, and Daria felt strangely satisfied.

"Two minutes." He pleaded. "And then you can have me hauled off. Please."

Trent exchanged a look with Daria. "Two minutes."

Stacy's nose wrinkled. "You're an idiot."

"Thanks, Hex."

She put her headphones down on the desk. "Two minutes, and then I'm calling the police."

And Stacy swept out of the room with Frank in tow, purposefully bumping into Tom on the way out.

Daria looked at her watch. "Time starts now."

"I don't know who I can trust anymore." Tom said, sinking down in Stacy's vacated seat.

"How do you think _I_ feel?" Daria asked. "You were important to me once, I thought I knew you, and then you turn around and do something like _this."_

Anger flared in his eyes and faded just as suddenly. "You will never believe me, but I am... truly sorry."

"That would have been good to hear eleven years ago." Trent said bitterly. "Did you torch my car?"

His gaze skittered away to the side. "No."

"Did you try to push us off Glendale Hill?"

"No, of course not! Who do you think I am?"

Daria and Trent stared at him, and Tom smiled wryly.

"Dumb question."

"One minute thirty. Tom, you're running out of time, make your sell and get out." Daria said.

"My father said he'd take care of it." Tom said. "I thought he just meant he'd settle out-of-court." He glanced up at Trent, and then away. "I didn't know he'd threatened to bankrupt the paper and I didn't know he blackballed the reporter. He made it go away. Elsie told us about the video..."

"And your dad made it go away." Trent said.

And another part of the puzzle fell into place. "That's why you drink." Daria said. "You know your dad's got you under his thumb." _And the booze lets you escape for a little while._

"And he also made Elsie go away. I lost my sister because of this." Tom said. "I lost my mother, and my best friends. And now _I_ don't know how to get away."

There was now sadness mixed in with her anger. He was an entitled asshole, but also just pathetic and worn down.

"Why didn't you just go to the police? You've obviously suspected for a long time that your dad was doing something illegal." Daria said. "But you're still jumping through hoops for him. Why?"

He looked at her blankly, and Daria was reminded of abuse victims with Stockholm Syndrome.

"I thought he was protecting me."

"He was protecting his _investment_." Daria said sharply. _That's all you are to your dad. Nothing else._

"You _need_ to go to the cops." Trent said, getting to his feet. "Tell them _everything_ , just _stop_ this shit."

It wasn't the most eloquent way to put it, but Daria agreed wholeheartedly.

Tom sighed.

That was when the door swung open again.

And Kirk Page was standing there.


	17. Chapter 17

"Thomas Andrew Sloane! What the hell are you doing here?" Kirk demanded, his face tight and drawn. He was wearing a long grey overcoat and black gloves and was one top hat away from looking like the villain from a silent movie. Tom looked leery for a moment before his face hardened.

"Is my father having me watched?"

"On the off-chance that you do something stupid? Of course he's having you watched, you little twit!"

Daria stared hard at Kirk. There was a muscle twitching in his cheek, giving his face a lopsided appearance. He seemed entirely too furious for the situation at hand, like he was putting on a show.

Her hand drifted over toward the mixing board.

Tom flinched. "I needed to explain-"

"Explain what? How you felt the need to exact your own revenge in the light of your very public shaming?"

"Of course not! What are you talking about?" Tom demanded. "I didn't try to kill anyone, and you know it. I didn't try to force _anyone_ off a cliff _!_ "

"Of course I know that." Kirk smiled.

"What? Then why-?"

"Well, you see, I suspect that, along with the _little_ incident with the car-"

Daria pressed the button marked _broadcast._ The _On Air_ sign flickered to life above Kirk's head. Trent's eyes flickered slightly as he noticed what she had done, carefully shifting to keep Kirk Page's eyes on him.

"Your father was the one responsible."

The three of them stared at him. Tom looked completely blindsided, while Trent's expression said that he should have expected as much. Daria understood the feeling. The news that Angier may have engineered the entire thing was hardly surprising, since he seemed to be the only common denominator in every situation.

After all, elitism is something that's bred into you.

"What?" Daria could hardly hear Tom's voice, a look in his eyes like his final lifeline was slipping away.

"Well, I assume that the car was just a message from your father to your intrepid reporter friend to keep her nose to herself. He always favoured, shall we say, more of a... Jimmy Hoffa approach to dealing with dissenters. Not that he's got his hands actually dirty _himself_ for years." Kirk said pleasantly. "What Angier, the arrogant _fool,_ didn't foretell was that he gave me the perfect opportunity to finally bring him down." The corner of his mouth lifted in an ugly sneer.

"You stole my car." Tom whispered.

"I did no such thing! I'm insulted, Tom." Kirk said. "Why, _you_ were the one that tried to force your ex-girlfriend and her partner over the side of the mountain."

" _What are you talking about_?" Tom looked like he was about to either fall into a coma, or a seizure.

"Why are you _saying_ all this?" Trent asked. "Man, you've got a screw loose."

But Daria's attention was on Kirk. "Why do you have a gun in your pocket, Mr Page?" She asked in a low voice.

"Isn't it obvious?" Kirk said jovially. "Tom came down here to confront the pair of you. Regrettably I was too late to stop him from killing you both, and upon feeling the weight of remorse, shooting himself. At least, that's what the police will conclude when they find the bodies, and after my _tearful_ witness statement."

_Oh my God, it's a monologue. It's an actual_ you're-at-my-mercy-Mr-Bond-now-let-me-tell-you-my-entire-evil-plan _monologue._

_"_ Kirk, we're _friends._ I grew up with your _son._ You've known me all my _life_." Tom's voice was reedy and thin, the reality of the situation yet to completely sink in.

"Which just made you the perfect tool." The man retorted coldly. "The easiest people to fool are the ones that think they're smarter than everyone else in the room."

Trent took a step forward, jerking to a sudden stop as Kirk Page whipped the handgun from under his overcoat, levelling it squarely at his chest. "Uh uh, Mr Lane." He said. "Something told me I had to keep an eye on you. You're a wildcard. I don't like wildcards." The man sneered. "I suppose it's hard for someone else to tell what you're thinking if _you_ don't know what you're thinking."

Trent's expression was flat. "I'm cute like that."

"What do you think you're doing, Kirk? Do you really think this is a good idea? Three against one?" Daria said. "You're an investor, do you really like those odds?"

Kirk snorted. "Please. A coward, a cripple and a _girl_?"

"Yeah, about that." She straightened a little as she heard the faint sounds of sirens. About _time._ "This girl has had you beat for the last-" Daria looked at the stopwatch on the table. "One minute and thirty-seven seconds."

Kirk's eyes widened, face blanching as he saw the _On_ Air sign for the first time. The lights snapped on in the secondary control room, and there stood Frank and Stacy. Stacy had a digital camera in her hands, calmly filming the confrontation.

"Give me the gun, Mr Page." Trent held his hand out.

"Actually." Daria said. "I had you beat before you even walked in. In fact, you were expected. Because I had a moment a couple of days ago where I needed someone I could really depend on, and realised that despite everything, that was my dad." She stood. "Mark called you after the accident, and you saw the opportunity to finally bring down Angier Sloane, the man who sent you to jail. And targeting Tom would be the first domino to trigger the chain reaction. How long have you been dining out on that, I wonder? Knowing that all was left was to pick the right moment to bring it all crashing down? You're absolutely right, the people easiest to fool are the ones that think they're smarter than everyone else in the room."

"All you had to do was _stop_ _pushing_." Kirk growled. "Dammit, you had to keep digging, didn't you?"

"That's the girl I am."

"You have no _proof_."

"But the thing is, I do. I have the ledger." Daria said. "You see, there were _two_ people that contacted David Sorensen independently, about two tangentially connected stories. Elsie Sloane may have told him about the accident cover-up, but it was your _son_ that tipped him off about the insider trading. The _years_ of insider trading."

"You nosy little _bitch_."

Her lip curled.

"I'm a journalist. That's who I am."

Picking his moment, Officer Seth Sherman politely knocked on the window.

For the first time Daria had an _oh, crap_ moment as Kirk slowly swung around, the gun moving with him. Before she even realised what she was doing, Daria grabbed one of the swivel chairs, shoving it as hard as she could into the back of Kirk Page's knees.

The man flailed wildly, and she was aware of Seth drawing his own weapon as Trent made a desperate grab for Kirk's hand so the gun wouldn't go off in his face or through the wall to Frank and Stacy-

_BANG!_

_..._

_.._

_._

* * *

"And he would have gotten away with it too, if it wasn't for us meddling kids."

"Next time you run a play that risky, give me a heads' up first, yeah?"

Trent was leaning up against the side of the station, a smoke in his fingers, clothes rumpled and bags under his eyes and looking for the first time like a man who was imminently turning forty.

"I thought you were _criminalé_?" Daria asked.

"I haven't been a _criminalé_ in a long time, Daria." He said. "Since I reached the age of reason."

"I don't believe you ever reached the age of reason."

"That so?"

"You're still in Lawndale, aren't you?"

He chuckled.

"How did you figure it out?"

"Why light the archive box on fire if there wasn't something else in there you didn't want anyone to find?" Daria looked into the lightening dark. "On the day that Dad and I got the box, I took out a floppy disk and put it in my bag. In all the chaos, I guess I forget I had it."

"There seems to be a repeating pattern here of women putting things in their bags and forgetting about them."

"Sexist. And also true. On the disk were several spreadsheet ledgers."

"All the crooked dealings of Grace, Sloane & Page?"

"Right up to and including the Mall of the Millennium project." Daria said. "Even as a teenager, Mark was preparing a 'get-out' clause. After the accident he watched Tom become a slave to his father and was positive that it wasn't going to happen to him. So he told his dad, who hadn't been out of prison for that long, that he had the Millennium ledger, and scared the old man even more by telling him that he had sent it off to a reporter to keep Kirk in line."

"Man, Kirk was watching Sorensen too."

"Yep."

"Why wait so _long_?"

"Mark was a teenager when he stole that file. God knows what other records he stole over the years and threatened to reveal to control his father. After I started poking around, his dad probably thought that if someone found the first file, the whole house of cards would start coming down and bring all the dirty laundry into the light." Daria said. "Mark probably has journalists all over the state he's using as collateral against his old man. And he's probably been skimming funds off the top for _himself_ for years. They were all just stuck in a holding pattern waiting for the straw to break the camel's back."

"'til Angier got Tom running for mayor."

"That was the catalyst. If Kirk could get Angier out of the way, he could concentrate on what to do about his own kid."

"So, Angier torched my car, Page tried to push us off the Hill, and torched Sorensen's notes?" Trent looked at her like it still wasn't making any sense. "Kirk had one over Sloane Snr, Mark had one over his dad, and Tom was just the patsy everyone blamed?"

"I think Tom _did_ torch your car."

"What?"

"Graham Electrical who installed and service your security cameras are investors in Grace, Sloane & Page. They knew all the angles." Daria said. "You were in there with me. Tom was trapped by his dad, and genuinely thought he owed his father everything. Maybe the old man suggested it one night, and Tom..."

_Who will rid me of this turbulent priest?_

"A way to get the job done but still maintain the moral high-ground and plausible deniability at the same time."

Trent frowned. "Then Angier Sloane can still say it's, like, still hearsay. A mentally unbalanced drunken son, the son's friend who was blackmailing his own father, and the personal vendetta of the man Sloane put in jail."

She understood his frustration. All they really had was Angier Sloane's signature on Trent's medical bills, and that could be chalked up to an act of charitable philanthropy.

Hell, this day was going on forever.

Daria looked at him. "Say 'vendetta' again."

He smirked at her. _"Vendetta."_

"Ooh."

"You're impossible."

"How are you feeling?"

Trent looked down at his sling. Kirk's shot had gone wild, ending up buried in the soundproofing lining the primary control room, but had glanced off Trent's bicep as it went. "I can't really feel all that much. It's like someone's given me dead arm or something."

"You're probably still a bit in shock. I guarantee it'll start aching soon enough."

"Thank you for your optimism." He took another drag off his smoke.

"Lane? Ms Morgendorffer?"

The police officer walked across the car park towards them.

"Hey, Seth."

"Hi."

"I'm going to need official statements."

"You have video. And, like half the town heard Page's confession."

"Humour me, Lane." Seth said. "I can already see Angier Sloane and Kirk Page's lawyers crying entrapment and coercion. Everything from this point needs to proceed exactly by the book."

"What about Mark?"

She could tell by his wince that it wasn't good.

"This is going to get dirty." Daria said.

Seth just grimaced.

That was when things started getting even weirder.

A fancy black car with tinted windows pulled into the radio station parking lot. One of Officer Sherman's officers went to stop him, and someone rolled down the window and flashed him a badge.

"What the hell is this?" Seth glared.

The next moment a tall woman in a tailored business suit with a sharp, white-blonde bob stepped from the driver's side. Daria did a double-take, certain she had seen her somewhere before. And then Charles Ruttheimer III left the passenger's side, buttoning up a double-breasted black jacket, and the world genuinely stopped making any sense whatsoever.

Daria stared. " _Upchuck_?"

"Ah, the divine Ms M." He gave a smarmy smirk that was all-too-familiar. _I've never met anyone else my whole life with such a punchable face._ "It's Very Special Agent Upchuck, thank you."

Her lip curled. "Oh, you're _special_ , all right."

"Who the hell are you and why are you on my crime scene?" Seth demanded.

That leer didn't shift as Upchuck and Ice Queen both held out leather wallets with an ID card along with a shiny golden badge.

"Agent Charles Ruttheimer." He said. "Agent Mallory Forrest. Federal Bureau of Investigation. We would like to ask you some questions... about Mark Page."

Seth's hooded eyes clearly said _oh shit._

* * *

Daria felt like she had aged a couple of years in the last week alone. Stacy had offered to drive them back to the apartment, but the next moment her dad's Lexus stopped with a screech of rubber just outside the radio station parking lot. One of Seth's cops went to intercept her folks, and even from the front of the building Daria could see Jake gesturing wildly, his dressing gown flapping like bat's wings. The next moment her mother's threatening lawyer pointer finger came out, and Daria could just _see_ the situation getting even more out of control. And as entertaining as it would be to watch, she probably should step in before it got that far.

"Hey, they're with me!"

Her parents pushed through the cops before throwing themselves at Daria. The air whooshed out of her as she was being squeezed tightly from both sides, her glasses slipping down her nose.

Trent chuckled somewhere behind her.

"Oh honey, oh honey." Her dad was saying over and over.

"Daria, you're alright." There were honest to God _tears_ in her mom's eyes. "Oh, my baby."

_Oh God._

"Okay, okay, get off, _get off_." Daria squirmed out of the boa constrictor embrace, arms held out with bent elbows to fend off another surprise hug attack.

"Where is that bastard Page?" Jake demanded, looking around with deadly intent on his face. "I'll _kill_ him."

"Dad! Triple bypass."

Her swallowed, an expression on his face like he was trying to choke back an entire lemon. "I'm just so glad you're okay, sweetie."

_Believe me, so am I._

"I need to get out of here. Drop me off at the nearest checkpoint?"

"Even better." Helen said. "We'll take you all the way to the border."

She turned back.

"I'm going to take off."

"Cool."

"My folks are going to hit their place first, so... you'll be okay?"

"I'm a big boy, Daria. I know it doesn't seem like it most of the time, but I _can_ look after myself."

There was no touching, and _definitely_ no kiss goodbye, but judging by Helen's frown, she saw something in the exchange anyway.

_Crap._

"Trent, honey, why don't you come with us?" She asked. _Honey? The world's gone mad. Mad, I tell you._ "We'll make you something to eat, and then Jake can drop you at your apartment."

It seemed a perfectly reasonable request, but Daria narrowed her eyes at her mother, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Trent arched an eyebrow, but was wise enough to not voice whatever he was thinking.

"Sure."

* * *

"So you're dating Trent Lane."

Shoe. Dropped.

Helen said it the same way you would say _So You're Living With Syphilis_ or _So You're Marrying A Convicted Axe-Murderer You Met Over The Internet._

Daria stiffened. "He's a gainfully-employed businessman. I had assumed that would make him a passable suitor in your eyes, but I suppose you could always demand he front the requisite 100 head of cattle as dowry."

Helen just looked at her. The two women were waiting for the kettle to boil in the kitchen while Helen had sent Jake and Trent into the living room, her dad talking Trent's ear off about some volunteer committee he had been invited to join.

"While I _am_ quite glad he's not the unemployed musician with questionable hygiene that I first met all those years ago, that's not what I mean."

"Really."

"Don't get me wrong, Daria. I like Trent. He's good to Jake, and he looks after Lex, but I'm just not quite sure you've thought this through. What about Jane?"

"Jane's already given me the pep talk. Favourite brother trumps best friend in the case of best friend making a complete and utter balls-up of things."

"Oh."

Daria frowned. "If you're going to say what I think you're going to say, then just stop."

"But sweetie, do you really like him for himself, or did you two get close only as a matter of availability and attraction in the heat of the moment?" Her mom asked. "Were you only drawn together because you were the only two people who understood what situation you were in? What if the attraction wears off when everything goes back to normal?"

"Mom-"

"What happens when you go back to New York and he stays here, Daria?"

Daria was silent.

"Or what happens when you decide you want more commitment? Are you going to ask Trent to give up his whole life here to follow you to the city, where he knows no one and has no job or home and has to rely on you? I can tell you from experience that _that_ leads to resentment on both ends." Daria knew her father had followed her mother to Texas in the first place, and she had to wonder how much of the friction between her parents when she was a child was caused by those early years.

"Mom-"

"What if _he_ decides he wants more commitment? Are you going to give up everything you've worked so hard for and come back _here_?"

"Trent would never ask me to do that."

"No, I don't believe he would. And you wouldn't ask the same of him, either."

"What exactly is your _point_ , Mother?"

Helen winced.

"What?" Daria frowned.

"Sweetie, you know I love you and will always love you, so don't take this too hard... but you do this all the time."

"Do _what_ , exactly?"

Her mother sighed. "Tom. James. Richard. Luca. And now Trent. You get into relationships that have a natural expiry date, so you have a built-in escape clause in case things get too serious. You can jettison, and tell yourself that it was no one's fault, that it was inevitable."

"Mom, that's insane."

"Wesley asked you to marry him and you went to Burning Man for a week."

"Wesley wanted me to move to _Oklahoma_." Daria said. "And there was the small matter of his other wife."

"They were separated." Helen said somewhat defensively. "My point is, you need to really figure out whether you _really_ want this, or if you're in this relationship because it just seems like a good idea at the time. Trent deserves better than that, and so do _you_."

"Just so you know, Mom, I wasn't having second thoughts until I talked to you."

Helen just looked at her blandly.

"You liar."

* * *

_Later..._

There was something about waking up in one's own bed that was strangely comforting. For a moment Daria Morgendorffer could lie there in her room in her own apartment in Hell's Kitchen and pretend that the last fortnight never happened. Finally she reached the level of being fully conscious and lay there splayed across her mattress, staring up at the hideous popcorn ceiling, pondering the clusterfuck that was simultaneously her work and personal lives at the present moment.

"Dammit."

Dragging herself from bed, Daria ate Cocoa Krispies from the box, watching crappy daytime TV, before her phone dinged, reminding her that it was about time to make herself look moderately human before heading down to the gallery to pretend she was a relatively well-adjusted adult. For the last few years, especially since making news anchor, Daria had gone to Jane's art exhibitions in her other personality, glamorous and sophisticated, a little girl playing at being someone else.

She pawed through her closet, dismissing the rows of fancy pressed business suits, finally emerging with a black garment bag with her name on it. Daria vaguely recalled Quinn proudly handing it to her one year, announcing that it would look _fabulous_ on her. Daria, smelling a rat, had simply hung the garment bag in the back of the closet and forgot about it.

"What the heck."

She unzipped the bag.

"Hell, Quinn."

Inside was a slinky green dress, a slit up the side. Wrinkling her nose, Daria chucked the dress on her bed and continued to rifle through her wardrobe.

And then she stopped.

_Hm._

* * *

Jane turned, and stared.

"Damn, girl."

Daria handed her trench coat over to the coat check guy.

"Courtesy of my sister."

"You look like a member of the trenchcoat mafia crossed with a high-class escort."

In the end, Daria had indeed gone with her sister's slinky green dress, and she got a certain amount of satisfaction from the horrified heart attack Quinn would likely have if she ever saw the dress paired with her old combat boots, polished up all shiny for the occasion, and Daria's round, thick-rimmed manstopper glasses.

Daria arched an eyebrow.

"High-class?"

Jane shrugged. "No class?"

"You're a bit old for that outfit, aren't you?"

Jane was wearing platforms, and leather pants. "I've got a reputation as 'edgy' to maintain. It would ruin my image to turn up in granny panties and a flannel nightgown. Chafes like a bitch, though."

_TMI. Waaay TMI._

"Edgy. Has anyone ever managed to figure out a definitive meaning of the word 'edgy'?"

"Hey, if being 'edgy' keeps the sales flooding in, I'm happy to be on the cusp of cool."

"Does being on the cusp of cool mean you never actually have to reach it?"

"I have been known to 'get jiggy with it' on occasion."

"Name one time."

"I could if I wanted to."

"Sneak attack!"

The next moment a big massive blonde descended down on the two of them, wrapping a big beefy arm around Jane's waist. Jane immediately twisted away from her fiancé, pivoting on her heel, digging her elbows into his back and resting her chin on his shoulder.

She nipped his ear.

"Traditionally, the idiot that goes into battle screaming 'sneak attack' is the first one to die, idiot. You're a Viking, isn't that supposed to be some sort of genetic memory?"

"Damn, I _knew_ I was missing something."

Thor put his arms behind his back, squeezing Jane around her waist as he beamed his boyish, too-gorgeous-to-be-entirely-human square-jawed smile at Daria. He was in a tailored suit and waistcoat, and looked like he'd just walked fresh off a shoot for _GQ_. For the last three years Simon had been consistently at Thor to audition for him.

"Hi, Daria."

"Hey, Thor. How's the dig going?"

Thor rolled his eyes. "Last week I made the mistake of bringing a bag of donuts onto the site. Offering free food to college students; I'm lucky I didn't lose a hand." He grinned. "Though, I'm back on terra firma just teaching now. No deadly insects, no snakes, no sucking mud, no inexplicable biological reactions to foreign materials-"

"Not having to worry about waking up to find you've caught leprosy during the night and your foot's fallen off." Daria said.

"But your students are easier to deal with when you're on site." Jane said.

"Easier to deal _with,_ or easier to dispose _of?"_

"Does there have to be a difference?"

Thor smiled adoringly at Jane, and as Jane caught her eye, Daria mimed sticking her finger down her throat. Jane stuck her tongue out at her.

"You've got a lot of action going on tonight."

"Yeah." Jane said. "A lot of big buyers pretending they know a fig about art. I swear, my next exhibition is going to be about the evolution of the art critic. It'll just be video on a loop of various critics rambling on about symbolism and all that crap." She took Daria by the shoulders and spun her around, pointing. "What's the symbolism of _that_ piece?"

"Um." Daria squinted. It was a male nude in a classic reclining pose, but due to Jane's unpredictable nature, there was something a little different. _One of these things is not like the other._

A little red rooster with green plumage in his tail strutted through the middle of the painting.

"Rock out with your cock out?"

"I knew you'd get me. Please, no applause, just throw money." Jane gave a theatrical bow. "There were these couple of old-school reviewers talking about the rooster's disconnect to the image being a metaphor about being unafraid to confront the classically accepted notions of art and the world and to go your own way. But the great secret is that there _is_ no great secret. I painted _Penguin With a Naked Lady_ because I lost a bet with this idiot here."

She jabbed her thumb back at Thor, and he raised his eyebrows.

"It sold for 50 grand, didn't it?"

"I'm partial to _Steampunk Barbie & Ripper Ken_, myself." Daria said.

Jane took Thor's hand. "Look, Daria, go get yourself a drink and look around and stuff. We've kind of got people to see."

"You need to work on your subtlety." Daria said. "I am aware of the codes for escaping for an emergency bang. I'm just surprised that there's anywhere left in the gallery you haven't made the proverbial whoopee. Are there any safe areas left?"

Jane pulled a face, considering. "Don't sit down on any of the furniture. Steer clear of the counter. Oh, and don't lean against any of the windows, just in case."

"Deviant."

"You know it."

With a swanky specialty microbrew in one hand and a cocktail weenie in the other, Daria perused the gallery. She spotted Marcus Delgado holding court, simultaneously praising Jane's talent and his own genius at the same time, and their new girl Bridgette was at the front counter, taking sales information. Daria stared at the paintings without really seeing them, thinking.

Thinking of where Mark Page was right now.

_'Off the record. He's a chip off the old block in every way, Ms Morgendorffer, but while his father was siphoning millions back into the firm, Mark Page was skimming off the top into his personal accounts in the Caymans. Keeping the dirt ledgers on his dad damned himself. They may have kept his old man off his back, but they also betrayed his own hand in things.'_

_'With the looming local election and how sloppy the Sloanes and Kirk were getting, he saw his chance and was just going to sit back and watch as his main competitors took each other out.'_

_'It's a theory.'_

_Daria had stared hard at Upchuck. 'Do you think Mark was the one that convinced his dad to kill me and Trent? He was fixing to set Kirk up from the beginning?'_

_'It's a theory.'_

If Daria had been Mark, she would have skipped out to a non-extradition country the moment she got wind of someone sniffing around, but still... This whole time, he had been the puppet master. He had set Tom up, he had set Angier up, and he had set his father up, all to cover up his own involvement. In her experience as a journalist, sociopaths like that had a hard time disconnecting from the game.

Maybe that's why _she_ was also having a hard time letting go.

In her unconscious circuit of the gallery, Daria had come to stop in front of a massive canvas, and as she blinked back to awareness, she realised she was staring at a guitar.

Or, well, it had been a guitar once, but Jane had painted it held together by bolts, braces and staples, barbed wire wound the entire way around the neck. The person holding it was sitting on a plain wooden stool, head bowed, a black silhouette. Daria looked closer. She would never be able to get over the raw emotion Jane was capable of portraying. The dark figure's hands and arms were dotted with a spider's web of white lines, and there was an explosion of white streaking across the chest, like stars.

Or scars.

The plaque read _Shadow (of the) Musician._

Her brain mustn't have been firing on all cylinders yet, as it took Daria an embarrassingly long moment to realise that she was staring at a portrait of Trent, as seen through Jane's artistic lens.

"Janey had me sit about five hours for that and then just painted it black."

Daria turned. _Speak of the Devil._

Trent Lane was standing behind her, in a smartly-cut suit in a concession to the fancy-schmancy atmosphere of the situation, but there was a _Black Sabbath_ concert tee beneath his jacket in a subtle middle finger to the Establishment.

His eyes lingered appreciably on her form.

"Looking good, Daria."

She did her own assessing sweep. "Thanks. You're not too bad yourself." Daria looked away. "How's the arm?"

Trent looked like he was about to shrug and then aborted the idea when he realised it would pull at his stitches. "Sore." He said, like it was no big and he got shot at all the time. But still, no one really knew exactly what he got up to in the band. "I'll live."

"Yeah."

The two of them stood side by side, sipping their receptive drinks.

"Daria?"

"Yeah?"

"You okay?"

"Sure." She said. "No."

He looked at her, and she sighed. "It's just... this whole situation thing was what pushed us together in the first place." Daria said. "Trent, did you ever think that now all of this is over and in the hands of the feds, maybe we can't keep an... us? I mean, what if this _thing_ wasn't ever really real and it was just stress and loneliness?"

He just looked at her calmly.

"But what if it wasn't?" The back of his hand brushed against hers. "It hasn't even been, like, 24 hours yet."

"Yeah, but people who fall for each other in volatile situations like this burn out early when that high emotion isn't there anymore. Just say-"

"Daria, you're over-thinking. Just go with the now. The rest will work itself out later."

It was such a _Trent_ thing to say. Daria felt herself get slightly annoyed at the answer she would have expected from the 21-year-old unemployed musician from almost eighteen years ago, rather than the 39-year-old station manager. "But you can't do that all the _time_. What about the future?" She asked. "You can't just _coast_ and expect everything to be fine when you reach the bottom of the hill. What if there's a speed bump?"

"I've already hit the speed bump." The look he fixed her with was remarkably serious. "Not that long ago I didn't think about the future. I _couldn't_. There was today, and anything else above ground was good. I couldn't think about where I'd be, like, five years later, because as far as I was concerned, there _was_ no five years later. I just kept plodding through the day, living in the now, to stop me from throwing myself under the next bus."

She looked at the ground. Trent had mentioned in abstract ways before now that he had been in a suicidal headspace after the accident and losing his ability to play, but hadn't stated it in such naked terms before.

"And... it took me a stupid amount of time to... convince myself that I was still important, that people would _care_ , but there are still times when the other DJs will be messing around and say something about the current roster being a car crash, and then they'll all look at me like _'oh, yeah'_ and then everything will get really quiet _._ " His eyes grew faraway. "And then _you_ look at me, and you don't feel sorry for me, and you don't see _these_ -" Trent rubbed a thumb across his scarred knuckles. "-and it makes me feel..."

The colour was high in Daria's cheeks.

_If he tells me he loves me I may have to jump off this building._

"And it makes me feel _good_." Trent finished awkwardly, scrubbing a hand back through his hair.

_Look at Mr Lyricist here._

"I have commitment issues. My mom pointed it out, but I think I've always known, I just can't _connect_ the way other people do..." Daria blurted. _Gah! What is it with this guy that makes me just word vomit all over the place?_

His smile was tentative. "Then live in the now with me, Daria? No commitment required."

She just stared at him.

"I can get down on one knee if it'd help." His eyes sparkled with mischievousness, and despite herself, she smiled.

"Are you sure you'd be able to get up again, old man?" Daria fired back challengingly. "Trent, I'm a planning person."

"And did any of your plans get you where you wanted?"

_Touché._

* * *

Daria had been concentrating on her own issues for so long, she didn't think that maybe he had his. And somehow, that revelation settled her, centred her. Maybe something _could_ happen; she just had to convince herself to inch her finger away from the _eject_ button. After all, life was what happened when you were busy making other plans.

Although the exhibition was for networking and all that crap, Daria somehow naturally managed to fall into step with Jane. Trent followed, and not long after that was Thor.

"You'll still be my maid of honour?"

"Maid?"

"Tramp?"

"Try to keep me away."

"I thought about trying, but realised you'd probably firebomb the place."

"I still might anyway. You're getting married at that swanky Catholic church in Harrowfield, aren't you?"

Jane shrugged. "Not since the priest was found with his wiener in the collection plate."

"Since there are worse things he could have been found with his wiener in, that's not that bad in the scheme of Catholic Church scandals."

"Try telling the police that." Thor said.

"So we're getting a celebrant and just doing it on the top of Trent's building."

Trent's eyebrow rose, expression unimpressed. "It wouldn't be the first time you did it on top of my building." He said archly.

"I _told_ you I was sorry about that."

"You, like, emotionally scarred a three-year-old."

"I _said_ sorry!"

"Is your family coming to the wedding?" Daria interrupted, really not in the mood to hear of further tales of her friend's deviancy.

Jane and Trent exchanged _looks._

"What?"

"Daria, I'm not even sure _where_ Penny is." Jane said. "For all I know, her yellowing bones were buried in a shallow roadside grave and as we speak are being slowly picked clean by buzzards."

"Summer's at some stupid _wellness retreat_ somewhere in Louisiana, Adrian and Courtney said." Trent supplied.

"That wellness retreat Courtney said was more of a weird survivalist cult?"

He winced. "Kinda?"

"What?" Daria blinked.

"Yep. They got the hell out of there on the back of a vegetable truck hiding under rotting cabbages and turnips." Jane said. "To this very day, Adrian freaks out at the sight of a turnip and many other root vegetables."

"Your family really is… something else." Daria frowned.

"I have a few choice descriptive words you can borrow from, if you want."

"So you just didn't invite them?"

"Wind broke down in tears when I told him I was getting married, before giving me the number of a divorce lawyer."

"Forewarned is forearmed."

"I _did_ send Summer a message on Facebook, but she hasn't even accepted my friend request."

"Maybe they don't get Wi-Fi in Jonestown." Daria said.

"Sent Mom and Dad an email. No reply, but that's not exactly a surprise. Neither of 'em were ever big on _actual_ talking, it was all about _soul_ _communication_ and that new age crap they used as an excuse not to actually _engage_ with any of us." Jane's voice was getting bitter and Thor put his arm around her, squeezing her waist slightly.

"Janey." Trent said warningly. "Chill. It's probably for the best. Too many Lanes in one place just leads to disaster."

"I'm chilled. I'm an ice cube." She took a breath. "Yeah, you're probably right."

But Daria could tell by looking at Thor's face that Jane wasn't as unflappable as she appeared.

After all, your family was supposed to be at your wedding.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Daria goes toe-to-toe with a psychopath.

"Do you want to go somewhere tomorrow before you go back to Lawndale?"

Trent just looked at her. "Are you serious or just yanking me around? Coz I'm getting too old to go chasing after girls."

"I'm always serious."

He smiled at Daria throwing his words back at him.

"Sure."

"Cool."

"Cool."

And before Daria could talk herself out of it, in front of Jane and all her city friends, she craned up and kissed him.

"Get a room!" Jane hollered.

Daria walked out into the night, buttoning up her trench coat. She felt good. She felt exceptionally good. Maybe her world wasn't such a wreck after all.

Something hard and cylindrical jabbed hard into her back between her shoulder blades.

"Keep walking." A voice growled.

Daria's eyes widened, but she somehow managed to keep her feet moving one in front of the other. She should have expected it.

She should have _fucking_ expected it.

"Hello, Mark."

* * *

Daria stumbled as she was yanked from the car, but managed to gain her balance before her face would have slammed into the ground.

"Where are we going?"

Her captor didn't say anything. Mark Page tugged her forward across the uneven ground, and a little part of Daria felt ridiculously relieved that she had worn boots instead of heels. She kept talking, feeling strangely calm. The Morgendorffer in her had taken over, limiting the fear and poking away until something interesting happened.

"Even the feds are looking for you, Mark. This is not exactly going to improve your chances of getting away. Your face is everywhere at the airports, bus stations and subways, but in hindsight you've got probably a dozen private airstrips across the country to take you anywhere. Or you could just skip the country in an Uber; I don't think that's ever been done before."

"Shut up."

They passed a billboard emblazoned _Welcome to the Proposed Site of Landon Towers!_

A ball was starting to form in Daria's throat as she started to really realise that she really _was_ in danger. With everything she had experienced the week before; she hadn't yet been in a situation where she was truly scared for her life.

That all had changed.

He forced her through a metal barricade ringed with emergency tape, through discarded tools. _Warning, Construction Site._

"If you kill me they will never let you go." Her voice was starting to hitch. "They will be hunting for you every day of your life."

"I've played this game before, Ms Morgendorffer." Mark finally said. He wasn't looking at her, his open, friendly face transformed into something impossibly cold and flat. The face of a psychopath. Daria mentally flashed through a slideshow of serial killers who had the same look of detachment in their eyes. "It's all about misdirection. I'm like a magician that way."

"Someone would have seen you."

"This is New York, Daria. Nobody sees nothin'." He smiled at her then, his eyes blank, and despite herself she knew that was probably true.

"Don't tell me you're holding it against me that the FBI froze your accounts."

Mark shoved her into an open depression in the ground. It was only perhaps a metre deep, but Daria stumbled and slammed hard to her knees, cutting her legs open on steel cement reinforcing. She gasped at the pain, swallowing back a shout, glaring up at the man standing above her on the scaffolding with every bit of icy disdain she could muster.

"Going to make the problem disappear again, Mark?" She called, not bothering to keep the disdain out of her voice. "You know, killing me won't change anything."

"It might make me feel better." His expression twisted. "All you had to do, Daria, was just _butt the hell out_." She forced herself to her feet and limped back, pressing her back against one of the freshly-laid concrete pylons. He switched on the cement mixer above her, and Daria stared as the cement began its slow decent down the chute to fill the bare foundation. "But you just _had_ to keep digging."

"You wouldn't have ever been found out if you hadn't told your dad you had given the ledger to Sorensen." Daria called. "A rookie mistake giving a name, Page. You screwed yourself."

"Shut up."

"But you do this all the time, don't you? Refuse to accept responsibility, palm it off onto someone else? Because at the end of the day, you're just a gutless little creep."

"Sticks and stones, Daria." Mark shrugged, gun still trained on her. Daria glared up at him as the cement pressed cold against her ankles.

Her cell started ringing.

The two of them froze.

Mark was the first to react. "Arms out to the side." He barked. "Don't you dare answer that."

She growled, but did as he said. _Maybe it was Trent. Or Jane. Or Mom. Or Dad._

_They'll know something is wrong when I don't answer. They_ will _._

After an interminable moment, the phone rang out. Daria's heart was pounding out of her chest. The cement had reached her calves. She was going to be entombed alive. And like too many reporters before her, she was going to just disappear, vanish from history to become a little footnote at the bottom of a journalism textbook warning against getting obsessed with a story.

_Mom, Dad, Quinn, Lex, I love you guys. Jane, thank you for everything. Trent-_

The white beam of a flashlight swept over the site.

"Who's down there?" A man shouted, and Daria's heart leapt.

_Of_ course _there's security on the site._

And before Mark could shush her, Daria screamed at the top of her lungs.

_"Help! Help me!"_

There were the sounds of running feet, and the man shouting to someone on his radio. Mark's handgun swung towards Daria, his teeth bared like he was really considering just popping her and being done with it, but the next moment the Landon Towers security man barrelled into sight.

"Hey!"

The gun swung back around and without even a moment's hesitation, Mark pulled the trigger.

Daria's heart stopped.

The security man jerked to a stop in his tracks, stood suspended there for a moment, before toppling over backwards, his radio crackling. Mark crossed to the body, reaching down to turn off the radio.

_Move!_

She snapped back to life. Sloshing through the rising cement, her hands dug into the scaffolding and Daria hauled herself over the edge of the foundation, stumbling on her hands and knees before lurching to her feet and streaking to the half-assembled stairwell next to the open elevator shaft.

_He just killed a guy._

She took the stairs two at a time, hardly feeling the pain radiating up her legs, heart pounding.

_He just killed a guy and he's now gonna kill_ you _._

"Oh, Daria. Are we really going to do this clichéd cat and mouse thing?" Mark called up the stairs. "Isn't that a little beneath you? It would have been so much easier if you had just gone quietly into the cement. This is going to make a _mess_."

_Eat shit and die, Page._

With a trembling hand, she pulled out her cell.

_"911. How may I direct your call?"_

"I need the police." Daria whispered. "I need the police _now_. He's going to kill me."

_"Where are you, ma'am?"_

"The Landon Towers site, Manhattan. He's going to kill me, please hurry."

The operator was still talking away as Daria slipped her phone back into her coat.

The rooms were half-finished, exposed electrical wiring hanging out, loose tools abandoned on the floors waiting for the builders to reappear in the morning. Daria hefted a claw hammer in her hand before slipping it into her coat head first.

There was a crack of a gunshot and the door exploded in a shower of splinters.

"Here's Johnny!" Mark shouted, and then laughed. "I've _always_ wanted to do that."

"You bastard." She hissed, backing away.

"You brought this on yourself, Ms Morgendorffer. You should know by now what happens to your kind in the end."

" _My_ kind?" Daria slipped her hand into her coat, balling her fist around the handle of the hammer. " _My kind_?"

"Journalists who can't keep their nose out." Mark shrugged, raising the pistol.

He pulled the trigger.

She lurched forward just as a searing heat scraped by the side of her face. Staring at her in bewilderment, Mark Page didn't pull the trigger fast enough as Daria yanked the hammer from her coat, bringing it around in a powerful arc that her father, the DIY King, would have been proud of. She smashed the ball into the side of his face, and there was a crack as his jaw snapped.

Mark shrieked, the reflex causing him to drop his gun.

"Oh, God." Daria was frozen. "Oh, _God_."

Murderous intent in his eyes, Mark lurched forward. Daria scrabbled on the ground for the handgun, holding it aimed at him with unsteady hands.

"You stay there." Her voice was croaky and unsteady, and after a moment her vision washed out and she realised that tears were pouring down her cheeks. "Stay the _fuck_ there!"

But there was no more reason in his eyes. He threw himself at her, and the next moment her back slammed into the ground, the gun skittering away. Daria found herself lying there with her head hanging over the empty freight elevator shaft.

She screamed.

Mark was on her in an instant, hands around her throat.

"Gonna make a mess, bitch." He slurred.

Darkness gathered at the corners of her eyes, but in the far recesses of her mind she heard police sirens.

She just needed a few more minutes.

_No! I will go to Disneyland with my niece. I will go with my dad to dance class. I will go and get coffee with Jane next week. I will take Trent on a proper date-_

Recalling her self-defence classes, Daria jabbed a thumb into Mark's eye socket, twisting and digging. As the man recoiled, she dug her knee into his groin before bringing the heel of her hand smashing up into his nose in a geyser of blood. She squirmed out from under him, standing stooped over. With a painful stretch she tugged at the cage doors at the top of the freight elevator.

"Gonna make a mess, bitch." She grunted, bringing the cage door smashing down onto his head.

Mark went limp, but Daria couldn't quite manage to bring herself to care whether she had just knocked him out or had actually killed him. She sunk down at the foot of one of the massive pylons, arms around her lacerated knees as she waited for the emergency personnel to find her.

* * *

As Daria was wheeled from the building, a detached part of her mind wondered how long it would be before the authorities would allow construction to continue on Landon Towers.

_Sorry, Jodie._

"Daria!"

" _Daria_!"

Jane and Trent. Daria looked up at the FBI agent walking beside her stretcher. "They're my friends. My best friends. Can I see them? Please?"

The fed said something into his headset and a moment later the two of them were by her side. Jane looked positively frazzled, while Trent was white to his lips. Daria's mouth quirked in a smile.

"You guys look like crap."

"Speak for yourself, Carrie." Jane said, trying to affect an annoyed manner and failing horribly. "You look like you're the only survivor of a chainsaw massacre."

Daria smirked.

"It's over. It's really properly over this time." She reached out, and Trent took her hand. "You know I love you. I love both you guys so much."

The two of them exchanged worried looks.

"I think the pain meds are causing a chemical imbalance in your brain." Jane said. "You're stringing together random words and speaking in tongues."

Daria's hand slipped from Trent's as the paramedics bundled her into the ambulance.

_No, it's the most honest I've been in years._

* * *

When she next woke, he father was nodding off at the foot of her bed. Daria observed him for an instant in silence before squinting around herself. Her vision was all fuzzy and she pushed herself into a sitting position. Her legs twinged, not liking the sudden change in elevation.

Daria saw a black outline on a white bedside table and her hand closed around her glasses.

The whole world slipped into focus.

So much _white._

The acrid smell of disinfectant hit her nostrils, and Daria's nose wrinkled as she stared at the pokey little hospital room. Her mother's jacket was slung over the arm of Jake's chair and sitting at the end of Daria's bed was a Nike sports bag with _Lexis_ written on it in silver bedazzler. Quinn and Lex were here somewhere too. Brilliant.

"Dad?"

Her father snorted in his sleep, unconsciously swiping at a runner of drool at the corner of his mouth.

"Dad!"

"I'm awake!" He snapped up so fast that Daria wouldn't have been surprised if he had given himself whiplash. Jake blinked in confusion for a moment before he stared straight at Daria and froze. Frowning, Daria slowly waved her hand at him.

Jake pounced, and suddenly Daria found her nose pressed into his shoulder as he squeezed her so tightly she thought she might burst.

"Oh, sweetie, sweetie-"

"Dad! Air!"

He released her, holding her at arms' length. "Kiddo, I'm just so glad you're okay."

"I'm quite glad I'm okay too." Daria felt, quite frankly, discombobulated. It was a word she'd never really used before, but it seemed entirely appropriate for this situation. "What the heck's going on? How long have you been here? How long have _I_ been here?"

The notion filled her with a feeling of dread.

"Not that long." Jake read her concern. "Just since late last night. Me and the rest of the family got in this morning. Jane and Trent stayed with you until we got in."

Daria slowly untwisted, knowing her dad would never lie to her about anything like this. Last night. Well, that wasn't _so_ bad. It was good that Jake was the one with her when she woke up, as she could just imagine Quinn or Jane trying to convince her she'd been in a coma for the last three years. "Oh."

He was holding her hands, like part of him was afraid to let her go. "There's something you should probably know, kiddo."

"What?"

"The FBI are waiting to interview you."

She frowned. "Oh." She swallowed. "Did I kill him?"

"Honey, no!" Jake said a little too quickly, and Daria was about to throw herself into the interrogation when the door opened again.

"Aunt Daria!"

Daria pushed her dad away in time to catch her niece as Lex hurtled at her, followed by her mother and Quinn. Helen barged in for the next hug as Quinn stood off to the side with her arms folded. Lex slammed a fist into Daria's arm with all the strength she could muster.

"Hey! What was that for?"

"For being _stupid_!" Lex trilled, for the first time actually sounding like her mother. "What the _hell?!"_

"Swear jar." Quinn said.

"What the hell were you thinking, young lady?" Helen demanded, arms folded tightly like she was torn between wanting to hug her and wanting to strangle her at the same time.

"Are you _kidding_?" Daria's mouth dropped open. "Come on. It's not like I _wanted_ this to happen."

Her sister flicked her hair out of her eyes, hands on her hips. "Yeah, Daria. Really, if you'd died, it would have, like, messed me up for _weeks_."

_"Quinn!"_ Their mother was horrified, but Daria's lips twitched into a grin.

"I'm _so sorry_ for causing a bother."

"Don't worry, I already put in a complaint to the management." Quinn smiled tentatively. "I'm glad you're okay."

"I'm glad I am, too. Unless I'm really still unconscious and all of this is a massive hallucination." She looked around, unimpressed. "Though, I'd like to think I have more imagination."

Quinn sniffed. "Optimist."

Someone else peeked around the open door, and Jane and Trent stopped in their tracks, unwilling to enter the room with all the Morgendorffers there, which Daria couldn't exactly blame them for.

Jane saluted her. "No one's killed you yet, then."

"Mostly." Daria shrugged. "Not for a lack of trying."

"Don't joke like that!" Helen was aghast.

Daria's face softened. "Thanks for staying."

Jane grinned. "No problem, sis-in-law."

Trent elbowed his sister in the ribs, in a not-subtle _shut the hell up_ way. "Janey."

Daria frowned. "What?"

Jane attempted to look innocent, marking Daria immediately feel suspicious.

"To stay with you until your folks got here, I _may_ have told the admissions nurse that you were Trent's fiancée."

"Oh my God, I'm stuck in a movie." Daria flopped back in the pillows. "A _bad_ movie."

* * *

With her newfound resolve Daria sent in her resignation letter that very afternoon to the network, and turned on her cell phone to a barrage of calls from reporters from all over, from New York to Lawndale. But there was only one voicemail that she bothered to listen to.

_"Hi, Daria, I don't know if you remember me, but this is Neil Blackwood at the Lawndale Sun-Herald. Ah, this is an odd sort of thing, but we've been approached by one of the major networks to do a series of true crime investigative reports, and the thing is, Dave won't do it unless you do as well. So, if you're interested, give me a call back at the office. Oh, and I hope you get better soon. Give 'em hell, kid."_

Hm.

It wasn't long after regaining consciousness that Very Special Agent Upchuck and his partner Ice Queen turned up, booting everyone out of her room, and Daria once again found herself going over the story of her abduction and escape.

"Is Mark dead?"

"No one's told you?"

"No one will."

Upchuck shrugged.

"He's still with us. Whether he'll be in full retention of his mental faculties when he wakes up is a different matter."

"Because everyone in this situation has been in full retention of their mental faculties so far." Daria said dryly.

He smirked at her. "Still the feisty babe you always were."

Ice Queen rolled her eyes. _Lady, I know how you feel._

Daria gave him a flat look. "So what does this mean for your case?"

"You're our star witness in our embezzling case." Upchuck said. "As long as you stop the _maybe_ _dying_ thing for a little, we'll be good."

"Excuse me for the inconvenience." She deadpanned. "I promise I'll try my absolute hardest."

Out of his pocket, Upchuck pulled a business card, flipping it out like a magic trick and he expected a round of applause. He slipped the business card under her hand. "Give me a call the next time you're thinking about maybe blowing up my case, yes? At least give me a head start."

Daria looked at the business card. "Make me a consultant and I'll make sure you're always up on the paperwork."

His eyes narrowed. "I'll keep that in mind."

"We'll be working with the Lawndale authorities throughout the situation as so many different threads are tied together in this case." Agent Ice Queen said. "It's going to be complicated."

_No shit, Sherlock._

"Attempted murder, arson, corruption, embezzling, conspiracy." Upchuck grinned at her. "Well, Morgendorffer, when you do something, you certainly do it right."

"Get bent, Upchuck."


	19. Chapter 19

"We're going to the Hamptons."

"We're doing what now?"

Helen was jamming Daria's clothes in her backpack with entirely more venom than was justified, in her humble opinion. Daria watched her cautiously, holding several books to her chest to protect them from the unjustified onslaught in case they became fatalities in the ensuing crossfire.

"Um, Mom, I know you never liked that shirt, but could you possibly ease it down a notch? Even the goldfish in the waiting room are looking at you sideways."

"Sorry, sweetie." Her mom slowed in her manic movements. "I guess I'm a little _stressed_. It's insane in Lawndale at the moment-"

"-when is it not?"

"-lousy with reporters, and I'm not going to let you go back to that pokey little box you call an apartment."

"Excuse me, Mother, but isn't that my call? I'm not in eminent danger since Mark is very possibly brain dead." She winced a little.

Helen frowned. "I won't be happy until the whole circus is behind bars."

"I'm with you all the way on that." Daria said. "But the _Hamptons_? With the _family_? The _whole_ family?" _Someone will be poisoning the coffee within the first day._

"Be fair, Daria. It _is_ Quinn's house." Her mom said. "It will only be for a couple of weeks, for everyone to get their bearings back."

"So we're just going to hide away in the house on the hill while the world goes insane, like some sort of hillbilly family of doomsday preppers?"

Helen pursed her lips. "I'd really prefer my family together during this time, honey. You can understand that."

Daria sighed. She did, she really did.

And that's how she ended up sitting on a window seat, legs stretched out in front of her, flicking through a _Ripley's Believe it or Not_ , the rolling hills and the beautiful water just outside the window making her feel like a drug addict imprisoned at a country retreat.

Down on the ground floor, the doorbell rang. It was probably Jane; Daria had asked her to grab some essentials from her apartment. The only things Helen and Jake had brought with them were a few mismatched articles that Daria had left at their house years ago, which consisted of a few pairs of pyjamas and some sweatpants with the elastic gone. Daria didn't exactly have a strict dress code but she didn't exactly want to be running down to get the paper looking like she'd dressed out of the Salvation Army donation bin.

The doorbell rang again.

"Quinn! Simon! Door!"

Deciding that the bell must have been broken or something, the person knocked on the door.

"Okay, okay, dammit." Daria set aside her book and stood with a groan, feeling like a little old lady. Shuffling down to the massive grand front door, she flung it open. "Well, it's about damn time-"

"Didn't know I was on a schedule."

Daria blushed. "Oh. Hi."

"Hey, Daria."

Trent Lane was standing on the doorstep, her backpack slung over his shoulder. He gave her a lopsided smile, and Daria was suddenly very aware that she was only wearing boxers and a long nightshirt with the TARDIS on it. Grr, sex kitten much.

"Janey sent me with provisions."

"Ah, sure. Come in." Daria stepped back into the grand hallway. "Oh, um, you better take your shoes off. Quinn just had the floors done and she'll have a conniption if they get marked, and as fun as that would be to watch, since I'm kind of imprisoned here it's probably best not to tick off the jailers until I make bail."

"Cool." Trent stepped out of his boots, kicking them beside the door. "No problem."

Daria brushed her hair back nervously. "Sorry about the wait. When there are too many Morgendorffers in the house we routinely try and smoke each other out of our hiding places by going collectively deaf when visitors arrive so the other guy has to cop it."

"Man, I know what that's like."

"Thought Jane was coming down."

"Her and Thor are doing wedding stuff." His tone said _and I don't want a bar of it._ Daria got that. Hell, did she get _that._

She took her bag. "Thanks for dropping this off. The train back to New York wouldn't leave for a while yet, would it?"

"Few hours."

"Use a beer?"

"Won't say no."

She was conscious of Trent watching her as she walked.

"How are your legs?"

Daria's mouth quirked in a ghost of a smile. "That's a little forward, don't you think?" She said with false bravado, well aware that her knees were black and blue and looked like she'd lost a fight with a belt sander. An attractive look. But the fact that his smoky voice was filled with concern for _her_ made something flip in her stomach like she was a stupid sixteen-year-old again. Fantastic. She'd thought she'd put that idiot teenager in her box for good. "I'm fine."

"Daria-"

"I'm _fine_ , I tell you. I am _fine_ , and no one believes me." She folded her arms, cross. Damn people not accepting things at face value anymore.

Trent's hands softly slid down her arms before slipping around her from behind. "I am _the_ expert at pretending to be fine, and you're definitely doing it right now." He kissed the side of her neck, and then her shoulder, and Daria was at once both thrilled and terrified by the intimate gesture. "I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"I should have walked you home."

"Excuse me? I'm not some delicate china doll that can't function without a man. It's not your fault."

"And it's not yours." Trent said patiently.

"Mark might be brain dead."

"He wouldn't be if he hadn't been such a greedy asshole." He said. "I'm sorry for him, in an abstract way, but it's not like it's _our_ fault or anything."

Daria turned in his arms, pressing her face into his chest. "I'm tired." She confessed. "I am _so_ tired."

He didn't speak but merely held her, which Daria appreciated more than if he'd babbled ridiculous platitudes or assured her that everything was over.

"Come on." He said finally. "Where's the kitchen? I'll make us some toast or pancakes or something."

"You sure know how to make a girl feel special." Daria finally smiled. "Are you sure you can handle the pressure?"

"I've been known to cook on occasion."

"I'm not sure _toast_ qualifies as cooking."

"You haven't tried my pancakes yet." Trent said. "I can do blueberry or chocolate. I can't, like, seem to get the hang of butterscotch yet, but I'll get there."

She cocked an eyebrow. "All right, you now have my full attention."

It seemed odd that they didn't run into any members of her family, especially since Daria was well aware that when Quinn and Simon were in the Hamptons, Lex practically lived in front of the fridge, chocolate cake in one hand and the collected stories of Sherlock Holmes in the other. A girl had to have her priorities. Daria opened the door to the shiny steel and granite kitchen, and the first thing she saw was a massive pot simmering away on the stovetop.

Daria sighed.

"Oh, Dad, what have you done now?" She lifted the lid, half-prepared for the whole thing to explode in her face, and stared into the pot of perfectly-cooked spaghetti and meatballs.

_What the hell-?_

"Ah, Daria?"

She looked up. Trent was standing by the fridge, a puzzled look on his face as he looked at something further into the room. Daria joined him.

"You've _got_ to be kidding me."

A small table had been placed in front of the kitchen island, places set up for two, a purple rose in a crystal vase in the centre of the table. Daria closed her eyes, suddenly understanding her family's absence and Jane's sudden need to do wedding stuff. "We've been Parent Trapped."

A place-card with her name on it sat in the centre of the table, and she flipped it open.

_'Because your first date keeps getting postponed-_

_Love, Mom.'_

Her face softened. "You ridiculous meddling woman."

Daria would never get over the fact that occasionally her family could pull a rabbit out of the hat that left her completely blindsided. The two of them worked their way around the kitchen, Trent dolling out the spaghetti while Daria hunted for beers. Since there was really nothing else to be done, the two of them sat down for their meal. And they talked, the conversation of two people who had known each other for years, flowing freely back and forth, not feeling the need to fill the pauses caused when they both stopped to marshal their thoughts. Daria told Trent about the time she and her co-anchor Percy had gone incognito to a Broadway show, somehow getting stuck in the middle of a punch-up between the cast of _Aladdin_ and the Elvis impersonators at the convention centre next door. The next day the two of them had to do the eleven o'clock broadcast with fat lips and black eyes.

Trent saw her _Asian Elvis_ and raised her _The Time Hex Punched A Camel And We Spent The Night In The Drunk Tank With A 6'7" Drag Queen Who Said I Had Pretty Eyes._

"To be fair, you _do_ have pretty eyes."

"Bite me."

Daria countered with _The Night Me And Jane Tried To Sneak Into A Trendy Boston Club To Meet Harrison Ford And My Ass Got Stuck In The Bathroom Window._

"I had to be pried out. It wasn't pretty. To this day Jane calls it the _Millennium fulcrum_ incident."

Trent belayed that with _The Summer Jesse Hid His Stash In The Apartment Air Ducts, The Vents Got So Hot The Pot Ignited And Got The Whole Building High._

"I was sure the super was gonna kick me out for that one." He grinned at the memory. "But the next day his wife gave me a box of chocolates."

"I can't begin to imagine why."

"Salt?"

"Sure. Isn't this where the requisite first-date painful small-talk kicks in?"

"If you want." Trent raised an eyebrow. "Is there anything else you really want to know?"

Daria frowned down at her pasta. When she really got down to it, they probably knew all the really important stuff about each other. Well, maybe she should move onto more trivial things. "Um. This is going to sound stupid."

"Yeah?"

She fiddled with her fork, looking up at him through her bangs. "What's your middle name?"

He cocked his head to the side. "That's important?"

"Kind of?" She winced. "You see, before she met Simon I always used to have a go at Quinn that she was going through all these guys like disposable napkins, and she didn't even know their middle names, and-" Daria pulled a face. "You know."

"Don't want to be judged on the same criteria as your sister?"

"Don't want to be an even bigger hypocrite than I already am."

"You're not a hypocrite."

"Wow, you really _don't_ know me."

Trent chuckled and swirled his glass. "You already know my middle name."

Daria frowned. "What?"

"You know my middle name. Everyone does, really."

It took a moment before she _got_ it, and her eyes went wide. " _Trent_ is your middle name? God, I've made out with someone and I don't even know his _first_ name."

"It's about time you had that experience, Daria."

"Get bent." She fired back. "What the hell is your _real_ name?"

He sounded a mite defensive. "Trent _is_ my real name. It's still, like, the name I was born with, just not the _only_ one."

Daria's face was bemused, but determined. "I have over a dozen journalists and researchers in my phone I can call in moments." She threatened.

He frowned at her, not entirely sure exactly why she was making such a fuss out of this. "It's really not that import-"

The stoicism snapped back into place. "It must be terrible; to be something _you're_ ashamed of. Thaddeus? Cuthbert? Bartholomew? No, your parents are more of a _Phineas_ person."

"You aren't far off." Trent winced. "Philip."

She blinked. "Philip?"

There were not very many names that were _more_ conformist and homogeneous. No wonder he was acting like it was a complete non-event. And knowing Trent, he would have much preferred a _Phineas_ to a _Philip._

"Philip." Trent confirmed. "Philip T. Lane. Not exactly, like, conductive to a potential music career. It sounds like the name of, I dunno, some skeezy investment banker on Wall Street or a used car salesman spruiking low, low finance deals."

"Or an alias for a Sicilian mobster."

He gave a ghost of a grin. "They say that's how you tell the musicians at an Italian wedding. The musicians are the ones _without_ the violin cases."

Daria gave him a narrow-eyed look. "That was... a truly _awful_ joke dad-joke, old man."

He smirked. "I kinda have something to ask _you_."

She frowned at him. "Okay."

"Exes?" He asked.

"What?"

"Like, do I have to worry about some poncy tightass suddenly turning up to sweep you off your feet with a box of Sudoku books and tickets to a symposium on string theory, or something?"

That startled a laugh out of her. "I'm flattered that you think I'm capable of understanding string theory."

He was looking at her with an expectant expression on his face. Daria frowned.

"You're... actually worried about that."

The silence was telling.

"I know I'm not the most... _cerebral_ of people." He said finally.

_"_ Oh my _God_ , you _actually_ -"

"Make me feel like an even bigger immature idiot, Daria, why don't you."

"I almost got married once." She confessed. "He was charming. A PhD. Sarcastic and biting. One year for Valentine's Day we went carolling around the neighbourhood just to mess with people. The thing is, one day I woke up and realised that I wasn't quite so narcissistic as to date someone who was essentially the male version of myself."

Trent smirked a little at that.

"What about you?" Daria swirled her pasta around her fork. "Any exes I should worry about crawling out of the woodwork?" Unbidden, the image of Trent's on-off girl Monique from like a million years ago popped into her head, like a case of the clap you couldn't quite shake.

"Most everyone took off after the accident." Trent said. "Mon's somewhere in Seattle fronting a hard rock outfit after I played her demo on the radio." It was like he had plucked the thought from her head. "I dated a nurse for a while in Oakwood after rehab, but that got a little weird at the end when the trying to _fix_ me stuff expanded from the physical and into the mental."

"Ah, she tried to change you?"

"I don't wake up before midday on Monday for anyone, Daria."

"Well, we all have to have standards."

"Jesse's last girl managed to get him to clean up his act, got him off the booze and the weed. She ended up dumping him because he was as boring as dirt."

"Ouch." Daria winced. "Is that cautionary tale a veiled warning that you don't need a life makeover?"

"I'm flattered that you think I'm capable of giving veiled threats." He said. "Next topic?"

Daria peered at him over tented fingers. She didn't really want to say the next word, but it needed to come out.

"Marriage?"

Trent shrugged. "If the right girl came along, sure."

_No hesitation. No hesitation at all. That's... interesting._

"And... would you move for this hypothetical right girl?"

She saw in Trent's eyes that he knew that she was asking if he would move for _her_ , and she cringed.

_Dammit, Morgendorffer, what are you doing to yourself?_

"For the right girl, no problem."

"Are you kidding?" Daria genuinely couldn't comprehend moving for a _guy_ , even if it was theoretically the guy she had liked since she was _sixteen friggin' years old_. "You'd just pack up your whole life? Like _that_?"

"I'm an artist, Daria. As long as I have a pocketful of change and a couple of spare shirts, I can move clear across the country in a shot."

"What about your apartment? Your job? Your friends?"

"Babe, an apartment is only a place to crash between gigs, and a DJ can get a job anywhere. And my friends are all artists and have mobile home bases anyway." He arched an eyebrow. "What about you?"

Crap on a stick. Of _course_ he was going to ask.

"What about me?" She felt herself flush.

"Would you pack it all in for love?" He dropped the l-word with no hesitation, and Daria found herself weirdly jealous of the ability. _Damn musicians._

"Um, I'm really not sure."

"Think about it."

Daria sighed. "I just... I've said before that I'm a planner. I've tried to do the whole letting loose thing. I even backpacked my way across Europe to try, but I can honestly say that was one of the most moronic things I've ever done my entire life. I just can't see myself giving up everything for a maybe. I can't fly by the seat of my pants like you do. Even someone I l- was in a hypothetical potentially long-term relationship thing with."

"I don't believe that."

"What?"

"If Louis Theroux called tomorrow and said that he was looking at doing a new documentary and he maybe wanted _you_ as his wingman, but the catch was you had to move to, I dunno, _Armenia_ , would you go? Even though it could all go to crap before you got off the plane?"

She blinked at him.

_In an instant._

"You get nerd points for even knowing who Louis Theroux is."

"If you have to force yourself to have fun and be spontaneous, you're doing it wrong." Trent said. "Haven't you ever wanted to dance in the rain? Sleep underneath the stars, see the morning dew?"

_That's poetic. Maybe you should have written ballads._ And of course Daria had to put her foot in it and ruin the sentiment.

"That sounds an awful lot like being homeless to me."

"Only you, Morgendorffer." He shook his head. "Maybe we should have gone to Alternapalooza. Stayed for the festival."

"Because nothing gets a girl in the mood like communal showers and a drop toilet."

Anyone else would have been mildly offended at her words, but Trent merely smiled, unruffled.

"Maybe you just haven't found the guy you'd go a little crazy for, huh?"

_Grow some balls, bitch._

"Maybe we both just needed to grow up a bit before I could see him."

"Maybe you really _are_ a romantic underneath all that that cynicism and outright ornery-ism." He said, mock astonishment in his voice.

"Did you just call me _ornery_? For the record, that doesn't exactly make my heart go all aflutter."

His eyes held a cheeky sparkle that slightly unnerved Daria, and the next moment he pushed back from the table and disappeared back into the living room. She frowned.

"Okay, then."

After a long moment and he hadn't returned, Daria stood and padded over to the door.

"Trent? What are you doing?"

Trent was on his knees in front of Quinn's massive sound system, going through Simon's vinyl records. He grinned as he spotted a title he wanted, before slipping the record out of its sleeve and onto the turntable. A pounding beat filled the room, and Daria looked at Trent in surprise as the first lyrics boomed out of the speaker.

_'Where's all mah soul sistas/Lemme hear ya'll flow sistas'_

_"Lady Marmalade?_ Really? I never pegged you as a _Moulin_ _Rouge_ type of guy."

"It's not about the words, it's about the _music_ ," he explained patiently.

_'He met Marmalade down in old/_ __  
_Moulin Rouge/_   
_struttin' her stuff on the street/_

And with that, he took her hand and pulled her into the room, spinning her around.

"Ack! What are you doing?!"

"Being spontaneous."

_'She said Hello, Hey Joe/_ _  
_you wanna give it a go?'_ _

"You're being _annoying_."

"I'll agree that there's a fine line between the two." He said. " _Feel_ the beat, Daria. Just _move_." Trent put a hand on her hip, gently guiding her into the moves he was pulling out of his head.

_'Giuchie, Giuchie, ya ya dada (hey hey hey)_ __  
_Giuchie, Giuchie ya ya here (here)/_   
_Mocha Chocalata ya ya (ohyeah)/_   
_Creole Lady Marmalade.'_

Daria twisted away. "Shant. I refuse to partake in this lunacy." She was aware that her face was flaming. "This is embarrassing."

"Why? It's just you and me here."

He twirled her around again, spinning her under his arm before gathering her up again, and Daria couldn't help but laugh. Here she was in her sister's holiday house and whirling around the room with her teenage crush, their socks slipping on the hardwood floor. It was only going to be a matter of time before one or both of them ended up flat on their asses.

And despite the absurdity of it all, she was actually enjoying herself.

_'He sat in her boudoir while she/_ __  
_freshened up/_   
_Boy drank all that Magnolia wine/_   
_On her black satin sheets is/_   
_where he started to freak/'_

"This is ridiculous!"

"You're having fun, though, right?"

"Shut up. Don't talk to me."

Trent chuckled and slid his arms around her. The next minute, one hand at her back and the other holding her hand firmly, he swung her into a low dip.

Her arms flashed up to grip tight around his neck at the sudden change in elevation. "Trent!"

He just grinned at her, bringing Daria back up to her feet, his own cheeks a little flushed from the exertions of tossing her around. Daria looked up at him, her arms still around his neck, fingers hooked into the collar of his shirt, but she couldn't bring herself to be properly angry at him literally sweeping her off her feet despite the obvious manly-man overtones.

"I used to be able to do the _Dirty Dancing_ lift ages ago." He gave her a considering look. "I probably still _could_ since you're a shortie. It's a real babe-killer."

"What, and have to call in to work that you can't come in because you've thrown your back out pretending to be Patrick Swayze?" She raised an eyebrow. "You're an idiot."

Trent's eyes sparkled. "But I'm your favourite."

"My favourite idiot."

"I'll take it."

And Daria kissed him, arms wrapped around his neck.

She couldn't pinpoint exactly when the kiss changed in intensity, only that it did, and that Daria was suddenly minus a nightshirt and her hands were busy working on the front of Trent's button-down.

Trent was staring at her with the look of someone who hadn't seen something quite like her before, and Daria hoped that was a good thing rather than him just deciding the possibility of getting some trumped her weirdness.

"You're beautiful."

His voice was hoarse, and she could see in his eyes that _he genuinely meant it._

"Wow, it's really been a while since you got laid, huh?" Daria hadn't brushed her hair since the day before, she was in Spongebob Squarepants boxers, there were powder burns on her cheek and her legs were black and blue and red all over. The look didn't exactly scream _vixen_. "I'm thinking you're a little overdressed."

"I'm thinking you might be right."

Finally she managed to slip his shirt off his shoulders, and Daria could see that little insecure spark back in Trent's eyes as all his scars were laid bare to her gaze. Much like in Jane's painting, the old scar tissue started not far above his left hip, stretching diagonally across his torso. There were smaller, more precise marks across his ribcage that were obviously surgical scars. His gaze was unsure, like he was expecting her to flinch back or stare, and in that instant Daria hated the women that must have done that to give him that expectation.

She grazed the old scars gently with her fingertips before craning up to kiss the underside of his jaw.

"You're beautiful, too."


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in getting the last few chapters posted. Life.
> 
> In this chapter I tried to write the court scenes before deciding it was just easier to gloss over them because the most experience with the legal system I have was helping a friend through family court. Lazy writing is lazy.

It seemed that wherever she went, Daria Morgendorffer couldn't get away from those _fucking pigeons_ and their incessant _noise._ Maybe they were following her. Yes, that sounded like about her luck. Stalked by a pigeon hive mind, their brainless drones dispatched with the goal of driving her to murder and insanity. She stretched against Trent's lean body, feeling lazy and sated and entirely too pleased with herself as his arms slid sleepily around her-

-a door slammed downstairs, followed by an explosion of laughter and a jumble of voices.

Daria's eyes popped open.

_Fuck._

The clock read _11:15._

_Oh, fuck!_

"Trent,"

She poked him in the side experimentally.

No answer. " _Trent_!"

He muttered something about the leprechaun having his keys before he rolled onto his side, sighed, and snored on.

_I don't wake up before midday on Monday for anyone, Daria._

She slammed her elbow hard back into his ribs, and he snapped awake with an explosive cough and lurched into a sitting position, rubbing his midsection with a clueless look like he was wondering what the hell hit him. Trent looked entirely disoriented for a long moment before he seemed to remember where he was and his eyes finally fixed on her, glaring at her balefully.

"Daria, what the _hell-_?"

" _Schhh_." She hissed, making a slashing motion with her hand. "Shut up."

"Aunt Daria?" Lex's voice drifted up the stairs.

"Daria?" Helen called. "Are you up yet, sweetie?"

_Triple fuck!_ Daria leapt from the bed, slipping her nightshirt over her head. She heard her mother's footfalls on the staircase, Lex's lighter and quicker steps behind her. Walking in to find Trent naked in Daria's bed would scar all of them. Grabbing her glasses, Daria kicked Trent's socks under her bed and threw his shirt at his head, scanning the room in a panic. Damn it, this kind of thing happened to other girls, not her.

"Get on the balcony."

"Are you kidding?"

She glared at him and his smirk faded as he realised that she _wasn't_ kidding.

"Uh, I'm _not_ hiding from your family _naked_ on the _balcony_. Believe it or not, I have _some_ standards." His eyes flashed dangerously, and she understood. If the situation had been reversed, she would have been raising all _kinds_ of hell by now.

"If you want a second chance of hitting _this_ , it's the balcony or the closet." Daria shoved his jeans into his hands. "Move it!" She ran her hands through her hair, hoping it wasn't too noticeable what she had spent the night doing, or _who_ she had spent the night doing, and glanced at her reflection in the mirror.

There was an obvious purple spot on the side of her neck.

"Trent!" Daria pointed at her hickey. " _Seriously_? Are we fifteen years old?"

He winced. "Sorry."

Fuming, she pushed him out onto the balcony with his clothes in his hands, yanking the curtains closed.

The door opened.

"Hi, sweetie." Her mom smiled at her. "Trent got away on the last train back to the city alright?"

"You ought to be ashamed. Playing matchmaker, Mom? Isn't that a little beneath you?"

"Well, contrary to popular belief I _am_ actually quite fond of the both of you, so I thought, what could it hurt?" Helen folded her arms, quirking a brow. "And since your father and I are saving up for a holiday and Quinn's off the market for the foreseeable future, we could probably use another dowry coming in right about now to beef up the financials."

"It's nice to know where I rate in your priorities."

"Aunt Daria!" Lex pushed her way past, a playbill in her hand. "Daddy took us all to see _The Book of Mormon_."

Daria frowned, not exactly sure it was appropriate for an eight-year-old to go to a Parker-Stone production. "Did you have fun?"

"Yeah, it was _amazing_." Her eyes were shining. "I want to do that."

"Musicals?"

" _Perform_." Her niece looked at her like she was an idiot. She fumbled her phone out of her pocket. "I need to talk to Trent."

_Crap._

Daria's heart plummeted to the floor. "I wouldn't be sure he'll pick up, kiddo. Stacy does Monday now, so it's entirely possible that he's entered a dormant state and won't leave his pillow fort for the next twelve hours."

"He always picks up for me." Lex said, with the utter confidence of an eight-year-old. Daria remembered that confidence, remembered the feeling of having the entire world all worked out while everyone else around her were bumbling morons. _Trent, if you haven't turned off your cell, I'll kill you._ Daria bit back a wince, waiting for the ringtone from the balcony betraying Trent's position, because this situation wasn't _enough_ like a sitcom already.

After one of the longest moments of Daria's life, Lex stared down in confusion at her phone.

"Huh. Phone's off."

"Why don't you leave a message, sweetie? I know he'll get back to you as soon as he can."

"Yeah, I guess."

Daria frowned at the utter fucking evil synchronism of the three of them thinking about the same guy in entirely different ways. "As much as I appreciate this bonding moment of three generations of Morgendorffer women, I've decided I appreciate pants more, so..." _I love you but get the hell out of my room._

"Oh." Lex's eyes widened, like she only just noticed. _Pick your game up, girl. I know you're more observant than that._ But then again, she _was_ Quinn's kid, so a certain amount of obliviousness was to be expected.

"Come on, Alexis. Let's have milkshakes." Helen ushered Lex out of Daria's room, her hand on the doorknob.

Her mom turned back to her, a knowing sparkle in her eye.

"And honey?"

"Yes?"

"Shower or closet?"

Busted.

It took Daria a moment to realise what her mom was talking about. Speechless, she blushed brilliantly, and then she remembered: his boots were by the damn _door_. But she still attempted to play dumb, to appeal to the mercy of the court.

"I swear, your honour, I don't know what you're-"

"I may technically be an old married fogey, but I _do_ remember what it was like to sneak boyfriends past my parents." Helen's eyes narrowed, a smirk playing about her lips.

"Boy _friends_ , plural?" Daria shook the horrifying thought out of her head. She was happy to live in a fantasy world where her mom had only ever kissed her dad, and even then, _ew._ "This is not exactly… the reaction I was expecting. I seem to recall you practically having a heart attack the first time I kissed a guy in front of you."

"I will admit to a certain _overprotectiveness_ when you were younger." Her mom admitted. "Mainly because as smart and perceptive as you were in most ways, you _were_ somewhat… _naïve_ when it came to certain other issues, and along with it entirely too proud to ever ask me or your father for advice _._ Was I wrong? _"_

"I suppose you have a point." As much as she hated to admit it, Helen was probably right. Even the things she _knew_ she was naïve about; a young Daria would have rather eaten ground glass than actually asked her parents about things like sex. She would have even baulked at talking to Amy about something that personal.

"As much as your father in particular would like to pretend, you're not that little girl anymore. You've lived your life and made mistakes." Her mom's smile softened. "And he makes you happy."

"Yes. He does." Her eyes darted toward the balcony, part of her cringing that he could hear all of this, and in a microsecond Helen's expression changed from mild amusement into one of motherly interrogation.

"Though I _am_ going to assume you used protection?"

Oh my _God._ "Mu- _oom_!"

"Don't use that tone with me, young lady, you know as well as I do that looking after your sexual health is just as important as your mental health, and there's always the issue of an unplanned pregnancy derailing your lives-"

"La, la, la, I can't hear you." Daria closed her eyes. "You can ask Trent for a clean blood test notarised by a justice of the peace and a judge later, but can you leave now before I have no other choice remaining but to commit harakiri?"

"Of course, honey." Her mom said smoothly. "And Daria?"

"Yes?" Daria sighed. At this rate her mother had all but assured that she would never have sex again. Which, really, could have been Helen's evil plan from the beginning.

"There's supposed to be a cold snap coming, so get that poor boy inside before he freezes, will you?"

With a smile that told her that Helen knew quite a bit more about her than she was entirely comfortable with, her mom closed the bedroom door behind her.

There was a gust of cold air as the balcony doors opened and Trent's balled-up shirt whacked Daria in the back of the head, shocking her out of her reverie. "I'm pushing you out onto the _fire_ _escape_ in the buff the next time _my_ mom visits."

There was justified irritation in Trent's voice and she bit back a retort that _his_ mom probably wouldn't really notice if she fell out of his walk-in wearing a bear suit and a tutu.

"It's not _my_ fault!"

"I'm too old for this, dammit." His cheeks and nose were red from the cold, jeans hanging off his hips, looking disgruntled. "The _neighbours_ were having a barbeque on their deck, Daria. Do you have any idea how hard it is to get your pants on when some preppy family in their matching cardigan sets are staring up at you?"

Oops.

And despite herself, she started smiling. Yes, she was on the expressway to hell. "I can't say I've had that _particular_ experience."

"It's _not_ funny."

"I'm sorry! It was an impulse reaction of not wanting to traumatise an eight-year-old." She tugged a blanket from the bed, slinging it over his goose-pimpled shoulders. Trent shrugged into it, his expression saying he wasn't ready to let her off the hook quite yet. "All I can say in my defence is that it was the instinct of a panicked neurotic and it _definitely_ wasn't anything personal. It _won't_ happen again."

"I guess I just thought my days of being hustled the hell out of the bedroom after I'd done the deed were over."

"That sounds interesting." Daria's eyes narrowed, a small smirk playing about her lips. "Did you fail to mention your previous vocation as a male escort?"

Trent cocked an eyebrow, irritation slowly mellowing to playfulness as he thawed, a half-smirk on his face. "Had to pay the bills somehow. Decent pay, set my own hours."

"Oh?" Finger in his belt loop, Daria tugged him back to bed, happy to help warm him back up. God, she had become a complete harlot, and was _actually enjoying it_. "Learn anything new?"

"You tell me."

* * *

_LATER..._

Time passed, as time was wont to do. Honestly, Daria was actually kind of surprised that it had all fallen together relatively quickly in a matter of weeks instead of _years_. She'd expected that the Sloane lawyers would have used every delaying tactic in the book against the feds. Upchuck must have really wanted this conviction.

Maybe he was up for promotion or something. Collar twelve fraudsters and win a turkey, that kind of thing.

Wherever the hell the court had managed to get twelve jurors in the district that hadn't somehow encountered the Page/Sloane case, Daria didn't know. Caves, maybe. Or homeless tent cities. Toothless Yokel Cletus in his isolated shack ranting about thems commies, or some pasty loser in his mother's basement going on about how the tinfoil hat was the only thing that stopped the government's mind-control probe. The idea that justice ultimately sat with twelve people who didn't read the newspaper and had somehow went about their life without ever coming in contact with a TV or _the internet_ never sat well with Daria.

Over her years as a journalist, Daria Morgendorffer had participated in court cases before, and had been even called to the witness stand once or twice, but had always observed it with a certain distance and detachment, like they were just insects under a microscope.

She couldn't be the detached onlooker right now.

In a suit and heels, her hair pulled back in a _lookie-imma-professional_ bun, she felt like a kid playing dress-ups in her mom's clothes. People stared at her as she entered, and Daria had to remind herself that these people couldn't see the chaos inside her head. Although there were no cameras in this courtroom, she caught the eye of a couple of people, who, with their laser-like intensity, could only have been her fellow journalists. The district attorney smiled warmly at her as she took her seat beside Jane. After a moment, Trent slid in beside her, looking handsome in a three-piece suit. It was a damn shame that it was _this_ situation that had forced him into it, because Daria could see Trent never wearing it or anything similar ever again after this was all done, whether it was for his parents' funerals or his own wedding.

The DA had told them that it would have been good for the jury to see them walk in side-by-side, to immediately see the human faces of the two who had unintentionally gotten caught up in the middle of this conspiracy, that they were both still standing strong after the intimidation and the murder attempts.

_(it also helped that right now she and Trent were media darlings of magazines and the talk show circuit. Love Blossoms Among Carnage! Lovers Find Each Other During Sloane Fiasco! Fall Of A Financial Empire Brings Heroes Together!)_

For that last one, Lex had Photoshopped their heads onto a picture of Princess Leia and Han Solo.

_(kill me now)_

There was something different about sitting on the bench and watching Tom Sloane being walked into the courtroom. As Tom passed where she was sitting, he raised his head slightly and shot her a small apologetic smile. Daria sighed. Despite everything that had happened between them at this point, she couldn't quite manage to summon up any righteous anger toward her old friend anymore, only pity. Tom had become the fall-guy for everyone that was supposed to care about him, the ultimate patsy.

She glanced sideways at Trent to see how he was holding up. And even though there was finally an end to this sorry saga in sight, there was no spark of triumph or anger in him, only exhaustion. Because of the Sloanes and the Pages and their greed, his future, his _life_ had already been irrevocably altered. Whether he would have eventually become a world-class guitarist or spent the rest of his life busking in pubs, that choice had been taken off his hands a long time ago.

There was no getting all those years back.

Tom's father followed, his head held high and proud, impervious. Daria's mouth twisted into a disdainful sneer. Scumbag. If Angier hadn't have been so invested in maintaining his powerbase, so much of this wouldn't have happened. But still, the bastard was _good_. Aside from Kirk's aired statement, there was nothing that tied him to _anything_.

_You're responsible for everything._

Smug asshole.

_I'll get you somehow._

Kirk Page was next. He was in a fancy Armani suit, but prison thus far mustn't have suited his expensive tastes; his hair was thinner and his cheeks sunken in, but it wasn't anything he didn't deserve.

_Good._

And then, waiting to make a last-minute entrance like the drama-queen he was, came Mark Page.

The brace that had wired his jaw shut had been removed only the week before, and after assurance from the hospital that he was well enough to face trial, the FBI moved in, not willing to waste any more time. After all that time Daria had wasted fretting that she had turned him into a vegetable, she now wished she could go back in time and hit him harder. She must have knocked something lose, as there was now a permanent tremble in his hands, and as soon as he had regained the ability to speak, he had announced that he was going to sue Daria and Landon Towers for damages, even though he _shot_ a man. The man genuinely didn't know when to just _stop_.

_How fucking arrogant can you get?_

His blonde hair was smoothed back from his forehead, making his pointy face even pointier, and he was dressed in a slick tailored pinstriped suit, looking like an evil Draco Malfoy. Evil- _er_ Draco Malfoy. He walked into the courtroom like he hadn't a care in the world. His face didn't look _quite_ right, and it took Daria a moment to realise that his jaw was a slightly different shape. The doctors had to reinforce the bone with a strip of aluminium, changing his jawline slightly.

It was part of the 'pain and suffering' he was countersuing for. The DA had assured her that no lawyer in his right mind would touch the case when they found out exactly _why_ Daria had caused his injuries, but she still wished she had five minutes with Mark in a quiet room with the hammer again.

Jane was staring at Mark with deadly intent like she was genuinely considering the practicalities of improvising a crossbow with Trent's tie and the prosecutor's pen.

The bailiff stood at the front of the courtroom. "All rise."

Daria and the others stood.

"Department One of the Superior Court is now in session. Judge Riley presiding. Please be seated."

The judge took his place before looking out at the court. With his snowy-white hair and round, brass-rimmed glasses, he was the splitting image of what Coke assured everyone Santa Claus looked like, but he had the crazy eyes of John Malkovich. "Good morning ladies and gentlemen. Calling the case of the People of Lawndale District versus Sloane/Page."

Oh, goodie.

* * *

It felt like absolutely nothing had been achieved.

She felt wrung out, and it was only the beginning. Daria went down the front steps of the courthouse, her arm linked firmly around Jane's to stop her friend from stabbing someone on the way out. Trent followed behind them, his dark glower hidden behind a pair of sunglasses. The Defence had grilled him today, about the exact reasons why he never attempted to proceed with legal action against the Sloanes after the accident, why he never mentioned it when he discovered that Angier Sloane had paid for his rehab, and sowing doubt with the jury by suggesting that he may have got the job with the station by pressuring the Sloanes to throw a little influence his way with the businessmen of Lawndale in exchange for not sending the family spiralling into controversy.

Of course, the Prosecution had countered by producing the board who actually _owned_ the radio station and who refuted all claims, but the damage had been done. Doubt had been introduced. It was a dirty tactic that Daria had seen plenty of times before, to try and completely obliterate the witnesses' good character, but Trent Lane had something that Tom Sloane didn't: people in Lawndale actually _liked_ Trent. Still, part of Daria dreaded _her_ turn on the stand. The defence would have a field day. She could see it now: bitter ex-girlfriend hooks up with the man Tom ran over years before and the two of them hatched a plan for vengeance in the run-up to the mayoral elections.

She'd known cases like this that had dragged on for years.

"Daria!" Her folks were there in an instant, and Helen gave her a hard hug. The next moment, surprising all of them, she turned and threw her arms around Trent as well.

"You did _so_ well today."

"Uh, thanks." There were two spots of colour high in his cheeks and he ran a hand back through his hair, embarrassed. Daria nudged him in the middle.

"Keep doing that and you'll go bald."

"Thanks."

Then something funny happened.

"Yo, Trent!"

There was a man waving at them, a man with a fashionable beard and short, curly brown hair. He began to elbow his way through the crowd toward them, and Daria immediately came to the conclusion that men shouldn't wear shiny leather trousers, and not just because walking sounded like two pieces of linoleum rubbing together.

"Holy crap." Jane said. "Is that-"

Trent slid his sunglasses down his nose. "Jesse?"

Beaming his clueless schoolboy smile, Jesse Moreno clasped hands with Trent and pulled him into a hug.

"Hey, man. Thought you were still on tour."

Daria vaguely remembered that Jesse was now the front-man of a _Disturbed_ -esque alternative-rock group in LA, popular with the under-twenties set despite all the band members being well into their forties.

"Wrapped up last week."

She was aware of the media clamouring forward as someone recognised Jesse, his name passing through the crowd. _Oh my God! Can you believe it! Jesse Moreno is, like, Lawndale Royalty!_ Never mind the attempted murder, it was all about the rocker coming down from up on high to grace them with his presence.

"So why are you _here_?"

"Heard my bro finally has his day in court, so we had to come on by and check it."

"Who's _we_?"

Daria understood Trent's suspicion. The two of them had enough surprises to last a lifetime.

"So chary, bro."

"Do you even know what _chary_ means?"

"Man, so young, so jaded."

Trent rubbed his forehead like he was surrounded by idiots. Daria remembered seeing the same expression on his face several times on and off over the years when patiently dealing with his _Mystik Spiral_ band-mates who seemed determined to make his job as hard as possible. In hindsight it was probably for the best that they had broken up, because it was entirely possible that Trent would have ended up killing one of them.

"'Sides, the Man wanted to make sure that the goose that laid the golden egg was sticking around for a few more years yet. _Rolling Stone's_ really been on the band's back to, like, reveal our mystery composer."

"What?" Jane asked. "You're making less sense than you normally do."

But at his words, in that moment Trent looked like a deer in the headlights.

_... i'm getting royalty checks now and then from Jesse, who still plays my music..._

In an abstract way, Daria had kind of assumed they were Mystik Spiral songs like _Icebox Woman_ or _Freakin' Friends_. Actually thinking about it now, it really didn't make much sense for a professional big-name outfit like _Atomic Divergence_ who routinely booked out arenas thousands-strong to be rocking out to _Psychic Refugee._

Then something hit her, from months ago. "All that computer equipment in your study. It's composing gear."

"Trent, you bastard!" Jane punched her brother's shoulder. " _You're_ the Ghost?" At Daria's confused look, Jane elaborated. "A bunch of _Atomic's_ music are credited and co-credited to The Ghostwriter. There's this big conspiracy about who he really is. I'll show you the forums sometimes; some of them are absolutely _hilarious_. There's this _great_ one that says _Sewerage Hearts_ was actually written by Paul McCartney, that there are all these _clues_ in the music and junk."

"My bad arm, Janey." Trent complained, rubbing his shoulder.

"Buck up, you pussy."

"Yeah. He didn't really want to be credited by name." Jesse said. "And the Ghost thing really drives up the band's mystique."

"Thank you for respecting my anonymity." Trent said flatly.

Jesse either didn't hear the sarcasm, or ignored it.

"Dude, it's been ten years! It's time to come out!"

"Interesting phraseology."

Jane squinted at her brother, frowning. "So the music magazines were right when they said that _Letters From The Apocalypse_ was about someone contemplating suicide?"

Even Daria had heard _Letters From The Apocalypse_. It was the breakthrough seminal song of the band that you liked at first, but was overplayed on the radio about a million times to the point you wanted to slit the lead singer's throat with a butter knife upon hearing the opening chords _._ "I thought that one was about a demon writing to his human lover."

"Oh, Daria. So uncomplicated and innocent."

"Y'know, that was a _long_ time ago now." Trent sighed, done with the conversation. "I'm really _not_ about to off myself or something, I promise."

"Pinky swear?"

He gave his sister a narrow-eyed look.

"Trent! You stiffed me at Alternapalooza, man!"

Max Tyler approached them, in another fancy suit, followed by a guy with a horrible ginger dye job.

"Holy crap, it's Lex Luthor." Jane did a double-take. "And I never thought I'd live to see Ronald McDonald in street clothes."

"Ha, Jane." Said Nick Campbell.

"Nicholas?" Trent frowned. "Where did they find _you_?"

"Yeah, I'm just gonna gloss over that tone and pretend that you're ecstatic to see me." Nick said.

"He was rocking it up with a Baptist choir." Max said smugly.

Nick glared. "At least I'm still rocking it up instead of watching others do it for me."

"Dude, that business lark is only to give me something else to do in between my girl and my drums."

"Ew." Trent said. "Max, over-sharing again."

Jane looked contemplative. "How do you do a rock version of _Ave Maria_?"

Over the course of the conversation, Trent's squared defensive shoulders had come down back into their usual slouch. His expression was exasperated, but Daria knew that Mystik Spiral's presence here, today, meant more than he would ever say. Over the years, the band had been more like brothers to him than Trent's _own_ brother.

"You know." Daria said, surprising herself. "We need to go out for drinks."

"It's about _time_ someone makes a worthwhile suggestion." Nick said. "Daria, right?"

"Yes, sir, Mister Alfred E. Newman, sir."

Trent smirked. "Yeah, Nicholas, the ginger should really go. It's like you were dipped in a pot of paint."

"Yeah, but since my kid did it, I'll eat it this time."

* * *

It reminded Daria strongly of her teenage years and early twenties, her, Jane and Mystik Spiral just hanging out after a gig, acting like idiots and eating pizza until they were almost physically sick. She really didn't know before exactly how much these five people had defined her, family in their own way. Daria didn't really realise how much she'd actually missed it when they'd all drifted away to start their own lives.

Max had suggested the Zon, and Nick had countered with McGrundy's, but Trent had decided on _Harper's Lounge._ _Harper's_ was almost a burlesque lounge, and while it looked like it wouldn't be out of place for James Bond to be out the back playing Russian roulette with a Chinese mobster, the food was good and at least the clientele weren't the type to come up and ask for Jesse's autograph, or bug Daria and Trent for an interview.

Daria sat in the corner of the couch, legs crossed and squeezed up against Trent, his wrist casually resting on her knee like he had every right to have his hand there. _Mine._ And despite knowing that her teenaged self would have railed against the masculine message of ownership that implied, she couldn't find it in herself right now to get properly indignant. Experimentally, she'd dropped her hand into his lap and his eyes had gone all adorably wide. _Mine._ Worked both ways, kiddo.

In retrospect, there seemed to be a very fine line indeed between playful vixen and sex pest.

His fingers drummed on her knee like he was playing an invisible piano. Even after all these years the band weren't exactly the sharpest tools in the shed because it took about three beers in before the rest of them actually noticed. And then naturally enough they proceeded to give Trent crap for hooking up with his kid sister's friend. He had just smirked before going on the offensive with the last girl Jesse hooked up with, a bouncy blonde that was all of _twenty six years old._ Or, at least that's what her fake ID said.

"Daddy complex, much?" Jane said.

"C'mon, Jane, it's not weird."

"The hell it isn't. She still had her milk teeth in."

"But the rule says it's only weird if it's under half your age plus seven." Jesse said patiently.

"It's in the Bro Code." Daria said. "Right next to Bros before Hoes."

"The Bro Code is a load." Trent said.

Daria's lips quirked in a smile. _He's a poet and he didn't know it._

"You _would_ say that." Jane said.

"What?"

"Well, big brother, it was decided by the Council of Dudes many years ago that I was a honorary Bro." Jane straightened and indicated the guys around her. Jesse nodded sagely while Nick smirked. "And you, sir, have broken one of the most sacred covenants of the Code."

"Thou shalt not bone a Bro's best Bro." Max said, indicating Daria.

"You're all morons." Daria said.

Nick showed them a video of his _college age son_ in the lead role of Hamlet for _Shakespeare in the Park_ (Daria had met his kid a couple of times over the years, he was sweet and good-natured, _god knew where_ that _came from,_ and now that sweet and good-natured little kid was turning _twenty-one_ next year. Daria felt like she should be pushing around a Zimmer frame with a colonoscopy bag attached and bitching about the kids on her lawn and how because of _the_ _internets_ no one knew how to talk to each other properly anymore), and his five-year-old daughter sagely picking out _Smoke on the Water_ on his old bass with all the grim concentration of _Dexter_ dismembering a body. Cute and yet mildly disturbing at the same time.

Though that could be ascribed to babies the world over, so…

Speaking of, Max had taken the opportunity to excitedly announce that he was going to be a dad, and there were congratulations all round, which Daria personally didn't quite understand. _Elsie_ was going to be the one pushing another _human_ out of her birth canal in nine months, and Max was getting kudos simply because his penis still worked.

Trent's expression twisted.

"What?" Jane asked.

"Oh, nuthin'. Just the sudden realisation that we've become those creepy old guys hanging 'round the high school asking the kids where the cool parties are this weekend."

Daria smirked.

Another half hour later and Thor came through the doors, looking puffed. All heads in the building turned to this six foot stocky blonde behemoth, and in some faces Daria could see people going _cop_ _or enforcer?_ Jane looked up at her fiancé.

"Did you _run_ all the way from college?"

"Not the _whole_ way." He slid into the booth beside her. "Sorry I wasn't there today. I was teaching a seminar."

"It's cool."

"Life trumps spectator sports." Daria said. "I wouldn't mind staying home, only the court apparently frowns on one of the star witnesses not turning up because she couldn't be arsed."

"You have a true way with words, Daria. It's absolutely remarkable."

"I know you're being sarcastic, but I'll take it anyway."

Trent smirked. "Guys, this is Thor. Thor, the guys. Jesse, Max, Nick."

"Hey." Thor gave that stupidly-handsome, _no-one-should-be-allowed-to-be-that-good-looking-and-live_ smile. At once, the other three members of Mystik Spiral lent forward, intent on the newcomer to the group.

"So _you're_ the townie that's taken our Jane." Nick smirked, a sly look on his face.

"You better have the right intentions or we'll have to take you out the back and work you over." Max said. Daria snorted, knowing what a pussy-cat the guy really was under that fake aggression and pretend hostile exterior.

"Yeah." Jesse put in his two cents.

"What the hell are you bozos doing?" Jane frowned.

"We're your brothers." Nick said.

"That's what brothers do." Max finished.

"Yeah."

"That's actually kind of sweet." Jane said. She glared across the table at Trent. "I guess you forgot the memo about what brothers do, huh?"

"Janey, if I spent all my time chasing off the guys sniffing 'round you, I'd never have time to do anything else." Trent said. "If someone else wants to do it, it's, like, no skin off my nose."

"Thanks for the solidarity, man." Thor said sourly.

"You'll survive."

"Dude, you've become so hard and cynical in your old age." Max said.

Nick's eyes widened like something had only just occurred to him. "Hey, yeah! It's the big 4-0 next month, isn't it?"

"We've _totally_ got to do something!" Jesse enthused. "Go out on the town!"

"I thought only sorority sisters 'went out on the town'." Daria said.

"Paint the town rainbow with body glitter." Jane added.

"No."

Everyone looked at Trent.

"That sounds very final." Thor said.

"It is." He said darkly. "Remember the last time the Spiral got together on my birthday?"

"We _did_ say sorry for that." Nick nudged Max, who attempted to look appropriately remorseful.

"There was a _goat_ in my bathroom. And how the hell did you even get that cow onto the roof? _Why_ would you think it was a good idea to put a cow on the roof?"

"I dunno, it's just what you do." Jesse shrugged.

"If you're touched or something, yeah. For _months_ I was still finding random bits of crap. _Actual_ crap."

Jane looked at Daria. "Are you starting to feel left out of one hell of a story?"

"No birthday stuff. And _no_ _livestock_ , for Christ's sake _._ I might just sleep the day, or veg out in front of the idiot box."

"Dude!"

"Man!"

"Come on, it's only practical." Daria said. "Too bigger surprise at his age could kill him."

"Thanks, Daria." He gave her leg a pinch, and she swatted him back.

"No livestock." Jane said, but there was a sparkle in her eye like she was considering the pros and cons of borrowing an ostrich.

Daria looked at Thor. "And _this_ is what you've chosen to marry into, you pathetic, naive boy."

"Don't scare him off yet!" Jane said. "He's still got to sign on the dotted line!"

Thor just smiled.

* * *

"D'you want to ditch?"

"Dine and dash?"

"I bought a round." He said, like _that_ made everything better.

Guys.

And like that, they were loose.

A yellow cab slid to a stop beside them, and Daria blinked at the cabbie, realising that it was the same man that had picked the two of them up from the station in the aftermath of the Death of the Mafia Staff Car, what felt like years ago.

In the rear-view mirror, his eyes swept over the two of them dressed in their court clothes, not a speck of dirt on them, no recognition on his face.

"Long day?"

"Too long." Trent said.

"I haven't seen you pair somewhere else before, have I?"

"You might have seen our _Wanted_ posters." Daria said.

Trent smirked.

The cabbie turned forward and didn't speak to them again.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, I kind of... forgot I hadn't uploaded the last two chapters here. Sorry?

Daria spotted them before Trent did, the news van parked in front of the warehouse apartments, naturally recognising her own immoral species.

"Um..."

Trent's lip curled slightly. "Locusts."

She shot him a stern look. "Hey, _I'm_ one of those locusts, you know."

"Yeah, but you're one of the cute ones."

"Thank you. I think." Daria said. "Anyway, I'm not in the mood for reporters right now."

"What a surprise."

"You really _have_ gotten ratty in your old age."

The taxi dropped them half a block from the building, and Trent grabbed her hand and pulled her into the back alleyways, until they stopped underneath the building's rusty fire escape.

"What now, genius?"

"Stretch."

And he took her around the waist and lifted.

"Grab the fire escape!"

"Trent, what the hell?"

"Grab it before I drop your ass!"

Swearing like a union dockworker, Daria grabbed onto the bottom rung of the fire escape, and Trent slowly let her down, unfolding the ladder behind her.

"I can't _believe_ you!"

He gave a breathless laugh. Daria may have been a _shortie_ , but she knew she wasn't a lightweight. Beer and pizza had seen to that. "You going to climb up or not?"

"Just for that, you can carry my shoes, jerk." She scowled and slid her heels off stockinged feet, handing them to Trent. "And don't look up my skirt!"

"Daria, I've already seen what's under your skirt."

"Oh my _God_! Why am I _with_ you?"

He shrugged.

"Temporary insanity?"

"That sounds about right."

* * *

Daria looked down at the cover for _Atomic Divergence's_ first album, flipping it over to scan the song titles. Even though it was obviously Jesse singing, if she listened she fancied she could hear Trent behind the music and the words, the, quite frankly, uncomplicated couplets and on-the-nose rhymes. The first half of the song was quite dark and telling about the writer's headspace, before a glimmer of hope broke through. He hadn't written this song in an afternoon, that was for sure.

"I hear you."

"Maybe better in the music. The lyrics, 'specially in the early songs, were re-jigged to make them more..."

"Palatable?"

"That's the word." Trent was sprawled on his back on the rug, hands folded behind his head. _Letters from the Apocalypse_ ended, and after a moment the next track started with an explosion of guitar that sounded disturbingly familar. Daria started in surprise as she recognised the tune.

" _Mister Normal_!"

"It evolved into _Spanking Hip_ _,_ an anthem against conformity and that hipster culture that seems to get everywhere and just infect." His lip curled briefly. "The number of little millennial dumbasses listening un-ironically sipping their craft beers and twelve dollar chai lattes and goin _'_ _they're not talking about_ 'me' is unreal _._ I've been walking down the street and heard teenage girls singing _birds of a feather/hipsters together_ , and I think, _holy crap, I've written a generation's anthem_ , _how the hell did that happen?_ "

"I'm sure Kurt Cobain thought the exact same thing before he blew his brains out."

He smirked.

She set the cover aside and stretched out beside him on the living room floor.

"Does getting down like this improve the resonance of the music or something?"

"That, and my back's kind of sore."

Daria huffed a laugh. "That's what you get, jerk." Smirking, she leant over him and kissed him. She was getting the hang of doing it without hitting Trent in the face with her glasses every time. Maybe it was finally time to invest in smaller frames. Ha. Her optometrist almost going into cardiac arrest over having to install her new prescription in fifteen-year-old frames didn't inspire her to update, but wanting to see the hottie she was macking on _did_. Maybe deep down Daria really _was_ as shallow as Quinn.

He kissed her back, but it wasn't with the single-minded focus he normally reserved for her, and it didn't take long for Daria to realise that something was up. She pulled up out of his arms, looking down at him, unimpressed.

"I'm sorry, is there somewhere you need to be?" Daria frowned. "Am I boring you?"

He blinked at her. "What?"

"Trent, you're acting like you've only just realised you've left the iron on."

"Uh, think we could change the record?"

It took her a moment to realise he wasn't joking.

She raised an eyebrow. "Isn't doing a girl to their own music supposed to be _the_ dream of a musician?"

"It put me off my game enough when a chick wanted to make out to _Icebox Woman_. Now it's like Jesse's in the room staring over my shoulder or something."

"With a flashlight under his chin. _Faster, harder, I didn't know you were that big, yeah._ "

"Daria, I'll scream."

"Baby." Daria poked him in the ribs before going back over to the stereo, rustling around for the perfect sound. "Ah, what have we got here. Oh, that's absolutely _perfect_."

Trent frowned at her upside-down, and Daria victoriously waved a CD she had found of VH1's _Definitive Songs of the Nineties._ The cover was cracked, the reduced price stickers were still on, and the security tag was still intact, shoved to the back of the cabinet and obviously forgotten about. Probably something he had to buy once in order to get the key to the toilet at a service station.

The CD whirred, and the next moment sounds of bubbly manufactured pop boomed out of the speakers.

_Oh baby, baby/_ _  
Oh baby, baby_

Trent's face took on an expression of exaggerated horror as he recognised the intro to Britney Spears seminal explosion into the music industry. _Baby, One More Time._

"Oh, no. You wouldn't."

"Oh, yes. I think we both know I _would_." Daria raised an eyebrow. "After all, all the songs on this album were the decisive soundtrack to our teenage angst."

"I'm sure it was the soundtrack to _someone's_ teenage angst."

"Consider it revenge for _Moulin Rouge_."

"I have _neighbours_ , Daria."

"And now they know that you're very secure in your vapid airheaded side."

_Oh baby, baby/_ _  
how was I supposed to know/  
that something wasn't right here?  
oh baby, baby/  
I shouldn't have let you go  
and now you're out of sight, yeah_

"I never thought you'd sink to this level."

"There's a whole other side of me you haven't even scratched yet."

Still chuckling, he reeled her back down, and Daria allowed herself to be caught.

_My loneliness_ _  
is killing me/  
and I  
I must confess/  
I still believe, still believe  
When I'm not with you I lose my mind  
Give me a sign  
Hit me baby, one more time._

"Daria?"

"Mm?"

"Gotta tell you something that's gonna freak you out."

"You would be surprised at my freaking out threshold."

"Don't be so sure."

"Try me."

He smiled lazily up at her, eyes half-lidded and hair lightly mussed. Apart from the extra lines around his eyes and the streaks of grey, the image was classic Trent.

"Are you sure you can handle it?"

"Out with it, young man."

"I think I just might be falling for you."

Daria stared down at him, at a loss for words.

_Can't speak._

_Must speak._

"Trent, I-"

"You don't have to say anything back." His long fingers teased through her hair. "I just wanted you to know where I'm standing. Okay?"

A lump had formed in her throat. _Eject, eject._

"Okay."

* * *

As Trent grabbed a nap before he needed to head off to the station, Daria received a text from her strange new best friend, David Sorensen.

_Meet me at LSH._

Daria didn't say 'thank god' out loud, but was thinking it really hard. She had laced her boots and grabbed her coat, reaching out for her keys. And in that moment of staring down at her key ring, Daria was suddenly confronted with a stark reality that she'd somehow managed to ignore up until the point of Trent's confession.

It had been over three months now, and among all the back and forth with the unfolding court case, Daria now had a key to Trent's place. She had a drawer and half of the walk-in and a spare toothbrush in the bathroom. Some of her favourite anatomy books and criminology texts had somehow made their way to his living room. She could flit in and out of his life as she saw fit, and Trent was fine with that.

He didn't have a key to _her_ _apartment_.

_You need to really figure out whether you really want this, or if you're in this relationship because it just seems like a good idea at the time. Trent deserves better than that, and so do_ you _._

She was still giving herself an out in case everything crashed and burned.

Frowning furiously, Daria stuffed her keys in her pocket.

The lights were still on at the _Sun-Herald_ , night staff gearing up for the night shift at the office. News didn't stop just because people were asleep. People still killed each other, cars still crashed, places still burned down, and the world was generally terrible. And all in all, it was probably the prefect career path for someone as jaded and cynical as Daria was. She used her own key and passcode to get into the building.

Daria Morgendorffer had been on staff as one of their independent journalists now for over a month.

Neil and David were waiting for her in the ancient break room. Neil was in his shirtsleeves and looked positively frazzled, while David was sitting there in his suit and calmly fixing his tie. Clean-shaven, hair neatly combed and with a pair of new glasses perched on the end of his nose, somehow over the past few weeks David Sorensen had managed to transform into practically another person, like he'd freshly emerged from the pod.

"Evening, boys."

"Ms M." Neil offered the cup of coffee he had freshly brewed. "Pick me up?"

"Gin tincture?" Daria asked. "I think I'll pass."

He glanced down at his worn watch. "It's five o'clock – _now._ Don't judge me."

"I wouldn't dare. Sorensen."

"Morgendorffer."

Daria pulled out a seat at the table. "So. Where's the fire?"

"Jason Strauss wants to talk."

Daria frowned. "Seriously?"

Jason Strauss was the typical mild-mannered accountant, albeit one that had been recently convicted of murdering five hitchhikers along the highway between Lawndale and Brookville. Daria and David had picked the Strauss case as the next they would be covering for their true crime investigative documentaries _So it was Murder,_ the title a line Daria had, perhaps inappropriately, borrowed from the Marx brothers' 1933 film _Duck Soup. Death, it's the only thing we haven't succeeded in completely vulgarising,_ Aldous Huxley one said. Well, they were certainly trying. There was something people found intrinsically fascinating about murder and the macabre, and hell, Daria would be the first to say that she was one of those weirdos, so to actually be paid to present the same cases she used to read obsessively as a kid was the closest to nirvana she'd ever get.

"How did you manage that?" The man was notoriously prickly and had rebuffed the media at every turn.

"Are you doubting my skill and charm?" David asked. "I'm positively distraught."

"You're kidding." Her eyes narrowed. "When I met you, you smelled like this weird combination of wet dog and stale booze. Are you telling me that's your natural musk?"

"That's enough, children." Their boss chided gently. "We need to get to the prison tomorrow morning as soon as we can. I would have liked to have gone today, but the warden called too late, which gives Strauss the night to decide to change his mind. But it gives _us_ time to get our shit together, _capisce_ , Lois and Clark?"

"Understood, Don Blackwood. For the honour of the Family." Daria said.

An hour later, Neil had to head off. His wife wasn't fond of him working all night anymore now that he had his own staff. "And neither of _you_ stay too much longer." He warned, shrugging into his coat. "Get back to your lives."

"If I wanted to have a life, I wouldn't be a reporter." David said.

Neil just shook his head. "Dave, go _out_. _Meet_ someone, for fuck's sake."

"Mm."

The two sat in silence for a while as they worked before David looked at Daria over the rims of his glasses. "How did it go today?"

"You know. I saw you sneak in up the back."

"I saw how it _went_ , I want to know how you _are_."

Daria's lips pursed. "I survived."

"Your man held up reasonably well under the cross-examination."

"Yes, he's becoming remarkably competent at playing nice with the other kids. And I didn't have to threaten to take _one_ toy away."

"Daria, is something wrong?" David squinted at her with entirely-too-keen eyes, and Daria kind of missed the ornery old Angry Dave.

Daria sighed, her shoulders slumping. "Trent told me he thinks he's falling in love with me."

David frowned at her in confusion. "Oh... you poor, maligned woman."

"I can _hear_ your sarcasm, you know." She said. "And then I stared at him like he'd just told me that in his spare time he secretly dissected small animals and preserved their intestines in pots of vinegar. And then we spent the rest of the afternoon carefully _not_ talking about it."

"Did you _want_ to talk about it?"

_No._

David read the answer in her look. "Then what the hell is the problem?" by his look, he would have dearly liked to have added _you crazy old bat._

"The problem is that I'm an emotional cripple who has never been able to fully invest in people because I'm too busy waiting for the inevitable moment where they'll let me down, hereby alienating those in question and causing them to pull back, and therefore bringing the cycle once more around to begin anew." She blew out a sigh. "Which leads me to the inescapable conclusion that one day because I haven't been seen in public for a suspiciously long period of time, my niece will visit only to find that I've finally suffered a brain aneurism and cats have eaten my face."

His frown deepened, digesting Daria's verbal stream of brain-puke and disregarding the bits that he deemed irrelevant. "From where I'm standing, you have absolutely no problem in investing in people. _I_ wouldn't be back here otherwise."

"On an... _intimate_ level, Dave."

"One could argue that the bonds of friendship are some of the _most_ emotionally intimate." He countered. "From my perspective, a hurt friend can do a whole lot more damage than a disgruntled lover. Are you afraid of Jane?"

"That would have to depend on the situation." She said. "In an abstract way you make much sense, Moon Person."

"Don't judge your own relationship against others. The crap you see in public is just the fluffy ten percent they _want_ you to see so you think everything is all hearts and puppies and unicorns crapping rainbows." David said. "Lane seems to have accepted that your relationship is different to other people's, and has no problem with it, so why do you? Just because something is the accepted convention doesn't mean it's good or right, and it _certainly_ doesn't mean that you've tanked as a couple because your relationship is a bit different to others."

"I suppose you have a point." Daria said. "You know, you should really be a _columnist_ , or something."

David smiled wryly.

"Ha. And Daria?"

"Yes?"

"Just… don't get a cat. Ever."

* * *

The next morning, Daria met David out the front of the Sun-Herald. Their cameraman was loading equipment into the back of the newspaper's 4X4.

"David." Daria acknowledged. "And _Brian_." She paused for a beat. "Couldn't they round anyone else up at the unemployment agency? How did _you_ end up pulling this?"

The young guy jumped down from the back of the truck, raking a hand back through his sandy blonde hair, casually fixing his jacket and flipping on his shades in one fluid move Daria would have expected to see in a greaser flick from the 50s. He shot her a sharp grin that had the crazy edge of Jared Leto in _Suicide Squad._ Once upon a time, Daria would have bet hard cash money on Brittany's psycho little brother Brian Taylor actually being the one _doing_ hard time, not the one observing it through the end of a camera, but hey, what did she know?

Of course, maybe he was just biding his time and taking notes on exactly how all the other serial killers had screwed up along the way so he knew what mistakes to avoid-

_Hm._

"Miss M, always a pleasure." He laid it on thick. Daria guessed that the ham acting genes must have run in the family. "It was a matter of simple physics. I said 'not it' the slowest."

Daria smiled wryly, jotting a couple of quick lines in her notepad, and David came sweeping around to the driver's side. "Come on, Oracle. You too, Dick."

"How many times do I have to tell you?" Brian complained. "I'm _not_ going to be Robin to your Batman."

The corner of Daria's mouth quirked in a grin. "I wouldn't be so sure that's what he's talking about."

Brian just shook his head, in a despairing _old people_ way.

Even with the young gun driving like he was OJ and the cops were on his tail, it still took the entire morning before they finally trundled into the prison parking lot. Clawson was a mid-security prison, a holding point along the way for prisoners heading off to max security or a luxurious one-way trip to death row. The three of them slipped off their shoes and emptied everything from their pockets before passing through security, their equipment and possessions passing through the scanners to the other side.

Jason Strauss was sitting handcuffed to the interview table with the prison psychiatrist Dr Rutherford in a holding cell when Daria, David and Brian finally managed to make it through prison security. Strauss looked up at them, wavy sandy brown hair falling into confused cloudy blue eyes, looking all of maybe nineteen years old. Daria wasn't moved. Upon their arrest, the neighbours of practically every serial killer since the year dot had said the same thing – _he was such a nice, polite, quiet guy..._

Dr Rutherford smiled at them. "Ms Morgendorffer. Mr Sorensen. It's a pleasure to see you again." _I bet it fucking is._ The psychiatrist glossed over the existence of their cameraman like he didn't exist, and Brian rolled his eyes behind his shades. Someone like Rutherford wouldn't have even _spoken_ to people like Daria and David before their faces were splashed all over the news.

"Doctor." David said. Neither his nor Daria's poker-faces flickered.

"It'll be good, Doc." Strauss said.

Daria nodded at the guard standing just inside the door. He nodded at her before stepping outside. She and David sat side-by-side as Rory stood in the corner of the room, hand-held camera in his hand.

"Jason, you said you had something you wanted to tell us?" David asked.

"Yes." The young man's jaw worked like he was chewing on the words before spitting them out. "I need to say..."

Daria and David lent forward.

Strauss looked up abruptly, meeting both of their eyes.

"I didn't kill those girls. I was framed."

_Of course you were._

"And why have you decided to tell us?" David asked.

"I seen you on the telly. The Page/Sloane thing. You kept going until you got to the truth. It coulda _killed_ you but you kept going until you got the truth."

"Uh huh." Daria said. Was this what her life was going to be from now on? Psycho murderers begging her to prove their innocence?

Brilliant.

* * *

The trio were almost back to the security station when the voice of the warden stopped them.

"Ms Morgendorffer."

Daria turned. Frowned. Unlike Officer Seth Sherman who actually looked like a cop despite his _laissez faire_ attitude towards authority, the warden resembled the Fat Controller from Thomas the Tank Engine, uniform straining over a beer belly that made him look pregnant. "Billy."

He had an abstracted expression on his face like there was a box of donuts in the break room and he knew that the shifts were about to change at any moment. "You have a minute?"

David's eyes narrowed. "We were actually on our way out, so-"

"Kirk Page wants to speak with you."

Daria froze. "What?"

The warden sighed, looking uncomfortable. "I'm really sorry, ma'am, but he heard you were in the building and put up one hell of a stink until I agreed to contact you."

She exchanged a look with David. "What does he want?"

"I don't know." Billy said. "All I know is that he's been in with his lawyer all morning and he seems set on meeting you."

And Daria's life did an about-turn once again as she was lead to yet another holding cell.

Kirk Page was handcuffed to the table, sitting opposite a man in a black suit. With his pale skin and narrow cheekbones, he looked like an undertaker. Or a vampire.

Daria nudged Brian to have his camera ready.

As the guard opened the door, the two of them looked up. While Kirk actually looked _pleased_ to see her, his lawyer looked like he had been sucking lemons.

"Ah, Ms Morgendorffer." Kirk greeted pleasantly. "Do excuse me if I don't get up." He rattled his bound writs to illustrate his words.

"Mr Page." Daria said. "You have some _massive_ balls, I'll give you that."

"Ah, I can see why you manage to spellbind so many young men."

"You were going to _kill_ me to destroy the Sloanes, forgive me if my manners aren't up to par." Daria slid into a seat opposite him. "Just so you know, this encounter is being filmed."

"Young lady, feel free. In fact, I encourage it. Shoot away. Make sure you get absolutely everything."

"Kirk, I really don't think-" His lawyer tried to interject.

"Fuck off, Toby." Kirk said curtly. "I'm not going down for _him_ , not again."

"I must insist-!"

"Get out." Page said flatly. "You're fired."

The lawyer looked like the floor had just fallen out from beneath him.

"You can't just-"

"Warden!" The man shouted. "Get this over-priced pencil-neck the hell out of here!"

There were a few awkward moments as Billy took the lawyer by the arm and led him from the room.

_Well, that was interesting._

"What exactly did you want to meet me for, Kirk?" Daria asked.

Kirk lent forward as far as the cuffs would let him.

"You wanted an exclusive, Morgendorffer? I'll give you an exclusive." Kirk stared at her with unbridled hate in his eyes, and Daria clearly saw where Mark got his deadly intent and hypnotic gaze. "I'll give you Angier Sloane on a fucking silver _platter_."

"I'm listening." She tented her fingers as David sat down beside her, flipping on his recorder. "Make it worth my while."

"The files aren't the originals."

"What?" Daria and David asked at the same time. Kirk's lip curled.

"They aren't the original books. They're the ones that Angier carefully doctored his name from so in case some little nosy -" He stopped and took a breath, calming down before he continued. "In case the business was ever opened up to outside investigation, only _my_ name would be connected."

"And _you_ got the blame." David said.

Kirk's lip curled. "It wouldn't have been the first time."

"But that's absurd." Daria said. "He's the senior partner. Surely no one would believe that this amount of fraud was happening under his nose and he'd had no clue the entire time."

"It wouldn't matter whether they believed it or not. His name wouldn't be on any of the incriminating evidence."

Daria was enthralled. "But he couldn't have cooked the books just by _himself_. He would have needed someone on the inside that could hide the transactions from the authorities."

"But where are the original books?" David asked.

Instead of answering, Kirk asked a question that seemed jarringly unconnected to anything.

"Did you know that the same law firm has been representing my family for the last hundred years?"

David frowned. "Good for you."

Kirk looked sharply at the door the warden had just led the lawyer out of before looking back, his brows raised expectantly, playing his very last card.

"And that they're _also_ retained by the Sloanes?"

And Daria _got_ it.

She pushed back from the table, David staring at her. "I need to go."

"You couldn't have said that two hours ago?" Brian complained.

Daria ignored him. "I need to make a phone call."

The warden allowed Daria to use his personal line, and she rummaged around in her messenger bag for something she knew was still there. She'd originally intended to throw the damn thing in the bin, but apathy had stilled her hand. Wait, _there_ it was. Of course, right at the very bottom.

Daria flicked the card between her fingers as she dialled. Ha. It was probably the only way he could _get_ girls to take his number, even _with_ the fancy car and the suit.

The call connected.

"Upchuck? It's Daria Morgendorffer."

* * *

_Later..._

It was almost one o'clock in the morning and the last lawyer had left for home. The security officer let out a sigh of relief as soon as the last put-upon intern scurried out of the building and he could finally run the game on the main monitor, put his feet up, grab a bag of chips and unbutton the top button of his pants so he could stop holding his gut in.

He was through his forth can of soda and was on his second jumbo bag of bacon chips when something flickered in the corner of his vision, and he sat up, muting the football. He wiped his fingers down his tie, leaving greasy marks, and scanned the monitors again, searching for the flicker.

There! Again! A shadow at the corner of the frame, just out of focus, and he sighed. It was probably another junior lawyer that had lost their keys again. It happened more than you thought.

And then the power went out, the security cameras flickering into nothing.

"Of _course_." Grabbing his flashlight, he left the control desk.

The conference room was empty, and he did a circuit around the room shining his flashlight into various corners before snorting in disgust. Nothing, nada. "Multimillion-dollar clients and the tight fuckers can't even update the camera system or the fuse box."

He was on his way out of the conference room when something slammed hard in his back and he found himself tumbling into the toilet cubicles. "Hey! What-?"

The door slammed shut and there were scraping noises from outside. He grabbed at the handle.

The door wouldn't budge. "Hey. Hey!"

A shadow passed the conference room.

The door to one of the senior partner's offices had been flung open, a flashlight beam dancing beyond as someone ripped through files. He slammed the filing cabinet closed. Nothing, dammit.

Wait.

He pulled back the sunflower painting to show the safe behind.

_Of course._

Grinning, he entered the combination, the same combination the lawyer had always had, and the safe beeped open, exposing a series of archive boxes varying in age. He reached in for one of the boxes, sliding it out on the floor and pulling open the lid, shining his torch inside.

And the box was filled with newspapers.

"What the _hell_ -?"

Starting to feel a thrill of panic, he rifled through the papers, searching, searching. No! They were here; they were supposed to be here. He sat back on his haunches, dropping the newspapers back in place, heart pounding.

A white envelope sat on top, and he reached for it, unbelieving, and flipped it over. One word was written on the other side in thick black marker. He stared at it, disbelieving. "The _fuck_ -?"

And that was when the lights snapped back on; leaving Angier Slone crouched there in the centre of the room and blinking stupidly into the light, staring out at ten armed agents that had somehow suddenly appeared there while holding a placard to his chest that said _Boo!_

"FBI!"

"FBI. Don't move!"

"Mister Sloane," A thirty-some guy with carroty-red hair and a grin that made him look like a TV plastic surgeon smiled pleasantly. "What a surprise to see you here. Breaking and entering for someone of _your_ breeding? Tut, tut. No patsies left to do the grunt work?"

"It's not exactly breaking and entering when I have keys." Angier said curtly, bristling. Who did this little punk think he was? "I was here to retrieve some files."

The kid's eyebrows rose. "At one in the morning?"

"It's an important case. You can't _touch_ me for that."

"Is that so?" The agent cocked his head to the side, fingers casually tapping against the pistol holstered at his hip. Angier's eyes automatically followed the motion of his hand.

"Angier Sloane." A woman with a sharp, white-blonde bob stepped forward, cuffs in hand. "You're under arrest for fraud, intimidation, attempted murder, conspiracy, perverting the course of justice-"

"-and whatever the hell else we can dig up from this cesspit." The orange-haired agent interjected.

He scoffed. This was nothing. He'd talked his way out of worse situations than this.

"You can't prove anything."

"Perhaps. If it wasn't for the fact that after a long conversation, your personal lawyer decided that he'd much _rather_ take a plea deal than spend the rest of his foreseeable life in federal prison." The agent's smile darkened, taking on a sharp edge. "Ah, Mr Sloane, you're out of practise. You forget things when you're sitting behind a desk, don't you? Like the weight of a gun that's loaded and one that's not."

A couple of the other agents looked back at him, mixtures of amused and _what the hell are you talking about?_

"What?"

His partner snorted. "Who the hell do you think you are? Liam Neeson?"

Upchuck scowled at her. "Just… let me have this moment, okay?"

She grinned. "Feisty."

"Nono, that's my thing. You can't take my _thing_."

She just looked at him, eyebrows raised.

"Charles, I can assure you that no one wants your 'thing'."

* * *

_"…the Sloane/Page federal fraud case has taken yet another dramatic turn with the news that the Sloane patriarch Angier Sloane was arrested yesterday in a joint FBI/LPD sting operation centring around the law offices of_ Rogers, Buchannan & Associates _over the unedited financial records of_ Grace, Sloane & Page. _He will face court charged with defrauding millions of dollars from the government and those who invested in his firm, tax evasion, intimidation, conspiracy with intent, blackmail, interfering with a witness and perverting the course of justice._

_Mark and Kirk Page both face first degree attempted murder charges along with charges of embezzling, intimidation and perverting the course of justice, facing jail sentences of 25 years to life. The third partner of_ Grace, Sloane & Page _, Stephen Grace was found innocent of involvement in the ongoing fraud, and is currently in the process of breaking up and selling off the business to reimburse shareholders whose money was being funnelled off to purchase such luxury items as a yacht and private island instead of being invested._

_Tom Sloane has been released from federal prison today after the judge and jury were satisfied that he had no further part in his father's fraud. Mr Sloane was found guilty of intimidation, drunk and disorderliness, and perverting the course of justice. In lieu of jail time, he will complete a non-negotiable twenty-four months at a rehabilitation centre for alcohol and drug addicts, and one thousand hours of community service. He was released into the custody of his mother and sister._

_The prosecution's star witnesses Daria Morgendorffer and Trent Lane were unavailable for comment._

_And in further news, the race to become Lawndale's new mayor has been narrowed down to two, Martin Wolfgang Kingdom, Jnr (aka Spatula Man) and the coach of the Lawndale Lions, Kevin Thompson-"_

* * *

The bell above the door tinkled, and the man that had been fussing about behind the counter of _Stilano Independent Publishing_ looked up to see a petite, dark-haired lady with massive glasses standing before him, looking at him with an expectant expression.

Curtis frowned. "Ms... Morgendorffer."

Daria Morgendorffer's eyes softened and her lips twitched minutely in something that might have been the start of a smile, but it was gone before he could make it out clearly.

"Mr Stilano." She said. "You told me to come back when I was ready to make a pitch."

Curtis looked up at that. That conversation was months ago, and he had almost clear forgotten the remark he'd made to the prospective author (honestly, primarily to get her out of his office). It was harder to forget the whole Morgendorffer/Lane/Page/Sloane hoopla that had been going on, and was _still_ going on, especially since Holly had befriended young Alexis Morgendorffer-Bassingwaithe.

Daria Morgendorffer had become a Lawndale star.

She quirked her eyebrows in a _hurry up I've got other things to do_ way.

"So, what would you say about doing a true crime series?"

Curtis heard cash registers ringing in his head and hoped his eyes weren't too noticeably flashing with neon dollar signs like some kind of cartoon.

"There _may_ be a market for it," he said delicately.

She smirked slightly at the agent obviously trying not to sound too over-eager. The woman clearly knew that right at the moment she was hot property, and could have suggested publishing a collection of napkin doodles, and he'd still bite.

"Perhaps we should go out the back and hammer out a proposal?"

That small Mona Lisa-esque smile was back.

"That sounds like it could be a very good idea."


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And for later on in this chapter, I saw this wedding dress and thought of Jane - www.pinterest.com.au/pin/780107966674672602

_LATER..._

The Zeemobile pulled into the driveway of the Morgendorffer residence and the doors opened.

"Any problems with leaving early?"

"Nah, Hex was happy to step in after your sister shanghaied her earlier and bribed her with sugar and Gucci. She hustled me the hell out of there at ten to twelve like I was going to turn into a pumpkin at midnight."

"Sorry about that. The family decided to do a midnight screening like it's a Harry Potter movie or something."

"Yeah, well, Simon's career _is_ kind of riding on this. Either he soars high and makes a living doing the thing he always wanted to do, or sinks back into the septic tank of mediocrity and obscurity."

"With a vocabulary like that, it's no wonder why you write the songs."

He coughed a laugh.

"Trent?"

"Yeah?"

"Look, about… earlier." Daria tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "I…"

"Yeah?"

"I've deliberated on the subject and… Just so you know, I think I feel, I'm pretty sure I feel… the same. Similar. I just… I don't throw the word around lightly, so… it takes me a while until I can use it. So, um, bear with me?"

Trent cupped her chin in his hand and raised her eyes to his, a soft smile on his face. "I'm not going anywhere, Daria."

He really _was_ the most beautiful and patient man in the world. "I don't think I deserve you."

Trent cracked a smile. "Uh huh, let's see if you still feel the same the first time I come home stinking drunk and smelling like food-truck chili gyro."

She smirked.

"Jeez, people, get a move on!" Jane hollered. Daria gave her the finger.

The smell of popcorn permeated the air of her parents' house.

"Come on, hurry up!"

"It's not a public theatre, Lex honey, it starts when we're good and ready."

"That doesn't mean you have to take _forever_!"

Daria's teeth immediately set on edge, and she had to remind herself that as normal as the kid appeared on the surface most of the time, fifty percent of Lex's genetic material was indeed from _Quinn._ That whine was disturbingly familiar, like a buzz-saw through the brain that she hadn't missed in the slightest.

"Alexis Ariah Morgendorffer-Bassingwaithe, don't you talk back to Grandma like that!" Quinn barked.

Helen just shook her head, carefully placing the bowl of popcorn in the centre of the coffee table, having finally learned that sometimes it was good to just not engage. "Hi, sweetie, Trent."

"Mrs M." Trent stepped forward to take some of the snacks off her hands, unable to resist his base impulses of being a disgustingly nice guy. "Let me help with that."

"Dear, you don't have to-"

" _You_ talk back to Grandma like that all the time!" Lex fired back, completely ignoring Daria and Trent's entrance.

"That's it, young lady, I've had enough of you smarting off, you're grounded."

Lex just stared at her mom, hands on her hips and a disturbingly familiar stubborn _I'd-like-to-see-you-try-old-lady_ look on her face, while Quinn glared back with a similar _push-me-kid-I-dare-you_ look. If it was _this_ bad now, someone was genuinely going to die when Lex became a teenager. " _Seriously_ , mom?"

Daria rolled her eyes as she settled on the sofa. Yes, seriously, mom? Great idea, confine the kid with a room-full of books on hackers, a reasonably reliable Wi-Fi connection and a buttload of angsty millennial alienation. She'd be the next Julian Assange in no time. Daria glanced towards the projector in time to see Simon sigh soundlessly and rub his forehead. With his messy hair, ripped jeans and the circles under his eyes, for the first time since Daria had really ever known him he actually _looked_ like a put-upon dad. Keeping up with both Quinn and Alexis and not entirely losing your mind in the process must have been a full-time job in itself.

With careful practise, he decided the situation didn't involve the threat of imminent bloodshed and therefore wasn't important enough to get involved in before continuing to set up the projector with a careful air of pretending that he'd never noticed anything amiss. Daria wondered whether they ran a class on Patented Dad-Obliviousness at the local Y or something.

And talking about dad-obliviousness, Jake was leaning forward in his armchair with his tongue in the corner of his mouth, having tuned all of them out while he was busily turning all his old gas receipts into tiny people. Daria was honestly kind of jealous of his ability to seemingly just shut off his brain to no great detriment. God knew that it would have come in handy in a wide variety of situations over the course of her life.

Quinn glared at her husband, not getting the backup she wanted, and there was something hilariously familiar about the current state of affairs. "I'm still not sure this is appropriate for Lex."

"Are you going to be the one to keep hunting her out while the rest of the family's here?" Simon asked pointedly.

"That's not the _point_! That Brittany Taylor is hardly an appropriate actor for a child!"

"I can cover her eyes when the bad bits come on." He said it in a perfectly reasonable voice, which just seemed to rile his wife up even more.

"Please, that's _hardly_ practical." Quinn rolled her eyes. "Just look at her resume, all those R-rated movies. _Revenge of the Vampire. Claws of Death. Circus of the Damned._ "

"Hey, I liked those!" Lex objected. Both parents immediately _looked_ at her. The little paper horse Jake had been working on ripped as he suddenly snapped back to himself, shooting Lex a panicked _shut up before we die_ look. Uh-oh, looks like grandpappy's been smuggling her into prohibited visual mediums again, tut, tut. Lex's eyes went wide as her words caught up to her brain. "I mean, if I'd seen them, which of course I haven't."

"Nice save." Daria said.

Quinn glared at Jake. "Daddy. Exactly _where_ have you been taking my daughter?"

"Half off senior citizens' day at the movies." Daria said.

Jane grinned. "Kids get in free if they can sneak past the ticket booth."

" _Daddy_?"

Their dad's eyes widened in that clueless way that said _don't ask me, I'm a moron_ , the smokescreen he regularly deployed so people would leave him the hell alone _._ " _Ahh_ … antiquing?"

"Suave as ever, Mr Bond." Daria arched an eyebrow. She took a slice of pizza before settling back on the couch under Trent's arm, poking him back into full wakefulness. Jane and Thor had sprawled themselves on pillows at their feet, making nauseating eyes at each other, and Daria _accidentally_ kicked Jane as she settled into a comfortable spot.

"Hey!"

"Oops."

Simon finally got the projector lined up with the old sheet that Jane had taped to the wall.

"Ready for your advanced screening?"

Considering that the estimated filming and editing time had been blown past a while back, Daria had been starting to think that _My Name is Melody_ was going to end up one of those mythical movies that would get stuck in developmental hell forever, if not finally reach the world after going through millions of dollars and several directors to gain ultimate infamy as an unalterable flop until the day where it would inevitably reach cult classic because of its irredeemable badness.

Commercial success in a world that idolised the artificial or financial failure to be venerated by the weird and absurd. Daria genuinely didn't know what would be the biggest blow to her ego.

But despite everything, Simon had done it.

"All right, here we go."

"Can I hit the button?" Lex asked.

The screen darkened, coming into the opening scene. It wasn't a final edit, so there were no opening credits yet. Some unpaid intern somewhere was probably compiling a list of who needed to be sucked up to as they spoke. The scene began on a shot glass, before slowly pulling back to… Brittany. Now Daria was about to find out whether her moronic show of support was going to pay off, or if Jane would still be reminding her of that moment of stupidity sixty years from now while they were hooked up to adjoining oxygen tanks in the nursing home.

And it started on Melody's opening monologue as she was pulled out of retirement, Brittany's voice flat and impassive. Luke and his makeup team had worked a miracle, somehow turning the bouncy blonde into a brunette with an A-cup. Even her _nose_ looked different, in a Nicole-Kidman-as-Virginia-Woolf kind of way. If Daria hadn't known who was under the mask, it was entirely possible she'd never have guessed. Even all made up; the girl had the vacant good looks and wooden delivery of Scarlett Johansson down pat, so she was sure to be a shoe-in for Hollywood any day now. At first Daria could have recited the script word for word, before she started noticing subtle changes here and there. One upon a time she would have launched on a tirade at that, before Daria noticed that Simon's flair for the dramatic hadn't changed the _intent_ of her words, merely refined and streamlined the delivery. Despite herself, she had to admit that he'd actually done one hell of a job.

Not that she'd say that to his _face_ , mind you. His head could barely clear the doorframe now.

Daria found herself sitting up straighter and straighter as the story of the ex-Intelligence agent being pulled out of retirement unfolded, getting more and more invested in the story despite the fact that technically it was _her_ story, and eventually she stopped seeing the bubbly ditz and started seeing the lethal spy codename Melody Powers, _seeing_ Frost and Eduard and Antonio and Mischa, not Brittany and Peter and Bobby and Sidney and that creepy little Uber Eats guy that delivered the tacos that Simon and Daria decided looked just shifty enough that he could plausibly work for the Russian mob.

The movie skipped between two timelines in a move that Daria would normally classify as lazy writing. Generally the only thing she abhorred more than concurrent timelines was foreshadowing through prophetic dreams. Try to put at least a _little_ effort into it, people. But the 1990s USSR and early 2000s America blended seamlessly, gritty, dimly-lit Cold War scenes filling in the gaps in the story of the bright, perhaps entirely too glary contemporary world, both stories discordant and harsh in their own ways, coming together in a payoff that was part Tarantino and part Christopher Nolan.

_Holy crap, and it's only his first feature,_ Daria thought as she watched Melody wheeling across the room with a Desert Eagle in either hand, _Deadpool_ -style, _what the hell was Simon_ doing _on a shitty little soap opera? If he'd stuck the landing earlier, he could have been a Hollywood megalomaniac of Hitchcock-like proportions by now._

Even Jake had roused himself from his stupor and was carefully watching the movie, though whether that was because the story had genuinely hooked him in, or he was just trying his best to pay attention because it was _her_ movie, Daria couldn't tell. And then in a jarring move that completely knocked the veiwer on their ass-

Melody was dead.

The screen faded off to red, and then to black. She sat very still, part of her having thought that he would have changed the ending to make it more saccharine and consumer friendly, instead of-

My god, he'd actually had the balls.

The classic writing advice was _kill your darlings_ , but Daria could hardly believe that he'd had the nerve to keep her ending in a world that was simply mind-numbing sequel after mind-numbing sequel, and for a debut feature that refused to do the annoying handwaving thing to the major studios and going _pick me up, I'm a series!_ was quite a ballsy move.

"Oh my." Helen finally said into the silence, as they'd stared at the spot on the wall where Melody's severed gun hand had only recently been before.

"Cool." Lex's eyes were shining. Well, she _was_ eight, at arguably the optimum age for the appreciation of blood and gore. "That was _awesome_."

The kid's unbridled enthusiasm seemed to break the tension, the room dissolving into an excited babble.

"Got any more chips?" Jane rifled around for snacks.

"Don't double-dip." Trent instructed.

Daria glared at the pair of them. Great. Arguably two of the most important people in her life, and _that_ was the reaction to something that could potentially break her career into zillions of little pieces. "And _that's_ what you have to say? How profound. You should write fortune cookies."

Trent took a mouthful of his caffeine-in-a-can, trying to perk up a little after a long day and an even longer night. "Me an' one of the kids at the station do a thing each week with the owner of the cinema about what movies are in and that, what's hot and stuff. Sorry, babe, but I think I used up all my reserves of adjectives on the last Marvel movie."

"Amiga, I spend all _day_ with vapid critics, I don't need to _become_ one." Jane said. "What do you want me to say? Aside from the fact that it was probably the shortest franchise I've ever seen since they tried to launch the Dark Universe with Tom Cruise in _The Mummy_ reboot, it was absolutely fine."

"Great. We can put that on the DVD cover. _It's an absolutely fine movie_."

"The absolutely finest you'll see this year." Lex said brightly.

Daria snorted.

"And if we have a bite from the studios, I wouldn't stress." Even though right now he looked like a homeless person, there was a calculating gleam in Simon's eye like he was a mob boss looking forward to whacking a particularly vocal squealer. "We don't actually see _her._ Give her a prosthetic and away we go. Or we've still got Frost and that weird kid Melody was training."

"Carys." Daria said. "It's Welsh."

"Whatever." Simon was busy carefully placing away the film. "We'll do a limited showing in a handful of local theatres-"

Daria frowned. "How did you wrangle that?"

"Cinemas are businesses too; they show what makes _them_ money. I'll drop my name a little bit, make the showing look _exclusive_ to bump up the numbers, get the guys working on social media to build hype before we go to DVD and make a hit."

"Or at least hopefully make enough to recoup your losses for Brittany's industrial strength brassiere." She said. "And then you'll just bribe stores to stock the movie?" Daria wasn't quite sure how she felt about that. On one hand, the fact that Simon was feeling so strongly about the project that he was literally putting his money where his mouth was, was kind of reassuring. On the other, it also felt like panhandling, doing a little jig for a few bucks.

"Let me deal with it, I know the business."

"Your brother-in-law seems to be just a little bit evil." Jane said. "I don't know how I missed it before."

Daria just looked at Simon. "You do know you're not actually an enforcer for the mafia, right?"

"No, I appear to have become your PR guy." He quirked an eyebrow. "Just so you know, Ms Morgendorffer, if you continue to force me into the role of your manager, I expect to be monetarily compensated as such."

"What are you talking about?"

"That phone call you fobbed off onto me."

Daria winced. "You're going to have to be more specific." Okay, maybe he had a _point_.

"We have an appointment next week as well. I'll get my people to call your people with the details."

"An appointment to _what_?" At this rate it was going to be an appointment to someone's execution.

"We're meeting Cindy Holland and her people."

Daria's eyes narrowed. "Why's that name familiar?"

"Because she's the Vice-President of Original Content for Netflix." Simon said. "They want to talk to you about developing the Kit Morgan play as a series."

Daria stared at him, eyes wide.

" _Bullshit_."

"Swear jar." Lex said.

"Hey, great!" Jake brightened up. "My kiddo's going to have a TV show!"

"Netflix doesn't do TV, Dad." Daria collapsed back onto the couch, part of her half-expecting Ashton Kutcher to leap out from behind a pot plant and tell her that she'd been punk'd. It would make _entirely_ more sense. "It'll be a webseries."

"With subscribers and a potential DVD release." Simon added.

"Well, whatever it is, you deserve it after all your hard work, sweetie." Helen said warmly.

"Don't get ahead of yourself." Simon cautioned. "It's a meeting to test the waters, to see whether they can buy the rights to your intellectual property outright or if they have to fork out a token position as a creative consultant to get you off their back and give you the illusion of being in control while they pick all of the substance and character out of the narrative."

"Thank you for your words of encouragement." She said dryly.

"Welcome to showbiz." He countered.

Quinn looked at her husband. "You've been spending too much time with my sister."

"Hey, that doesn't mean we shouldn't be celebrating." Jane cut in.

"Right on!" Jake said.

"I mean, this is _showbiz_! You're on your way!"

"My way to what?" Daria asked sourly.

"The corruption and infamy and the invitations to fabulous parties allowing you to ghost the people you once could only stalk from afar." Jane's grin was all teeth. "And of course there's the immense fame and fortune enabling you to collect a whole new and interesting array of addictions and vices which one day will undoubtedly lead to the pool-boy finding you floating face-down _Great Gatsby_ -style."

"Oh, good. I've always wanted to get on the fast-track to hedonism and vehicular manslaughter."

Trent hid a smirk behind his hand.

* * *

_EVEN LATER..._

"I should kill you for this."

"This is not about you, this is about _me,_ Morgendorffer. And about a million bridal magazines agree with me. Back down before I release the Mommy-bloggers on your ass."

Daria rolled her eyes.

"Seriously, when is it _not_ about you?"

"Oh, ha. When you get married, I give you carte blanche to go nuts." Jane wriggled her eyebrows and Daria sighed.

"Well, when Tom Hiddleston finally comes to his senses and asks me on bended knee to be his one and only, you'll be the first to know." She said dryly. "You know, I thought it would have made sense to have all of this sorted out weeks ago."

"You would think so, wouldn't you?" Jane said mildly. "And if it wasn't for your existential crisis and downward spiral into murder and depravity, maybe it _would_ have been."

"Officer, you can't pin any of this on me." She frowned. "You know, the boys are probably not doing something as lame as this."

"Thor was straight A student with a 4.0 GPA. I bet they're doing something _exactly_ as lame as this."

"Yeah, Daria, get with the program." The third of their number said.

Daria leaned toward Jane. "And why did you invite _her_ along again?"

Quinn rolled her eyes before inspecting her manicured fingernails studiously. "Guh, Daria. This sort of thing is my _job,_ you know."

"And here I was thinking that was only a vicious rumour."

"Be nice to your sister." Jane said. "She knows all the other snobby bitches who make up this industry, so she can get me a discount."

"Ah, of course. It's all about that sweet, sweet money."

"And if we end up stranded in the uncharted wilderness that is the slutty underwear aisle, we can always eat her."

"Oh, ha." Quinn said. "So, what does this other girl look like?"

"You know." Jane shrugged. They were currently waiting for the last member of the small bridal party. "Like she could be related to Thor."

"Tall, blonde, vaguely Aryan." Daria said.

"You're only bitter because she beat you at scrabble with _Oxyphenbutazone."_ Jane retorted.

She was not bitter. She was _not._ Okay, maybe a little. "Do you have any idea how statistically impossible it is to actually play that word?"

Quinn just looked at the two of them pityingly.

The bell above the door tinkled. "There she is." Jane waved to a leggy blonde that had entered the store. She was tall, fair hair pulled back into a long ponytail, muscle definition in her calves saying that she was more than capable of running a minute mile in her stiletto heels. Thor's sister was actually a chemical engineer attached to the military, but the casual bystander would see those swivelling hips and dismiss the woman as a vapid, fame-obsessed wannabe social media influencer. The sad part was that Daria herself would probably have dismissed her as the same if it hadn't been for Jane enforcing a friendship between them.

"Hi, Iddie." Jane said. "You remember Daria. And this is Daria's sister, Quinn. She's today's sugar daddy."

Iddie sat at their little booth and immediately reached for the most chocolatey muffin she could see like she'd never eaten a cake in her life, earning disgruntled stares from the other starving bridesmaids in the boutique. She was one of those obnoxious women who could eat anything and seemed not to gain any weight at all, and Daria could have easily hated her for that alone. "Pleasure." Daria couldn't tell whether that was for them or the chocolate.

"Iddie?" Quinn asked. "That's a weird name."

"Lack of tact really runs in your family, doesn't it?" Jane commented.

"It's short for Idunn." Daria said. Quinn looked blank. "Like the Norse goddess."

Still nothing.

Daria looked at Iddie. "Your parents really wanted to give you complexes, didn't they?"

"It was all fine until the MCU came along and suddenly every man and his dog were experts on Norse mythology. The damn number of times I've been told I can't be Thor's sister is just-" She shook her head. "Still, Loki probably got the worse of it."

Jane arched an eyebrow. "And I'm sure your big brother is crying himself to sleep every night on his king-size bed made of stacks of hundred-dollar bills, with nothing to comfort him but his Fortune 500 Company and fleet of luxury cars."

Daria smirked. She'd actually liked Loki Erikson the few times she'd met him, but that still didn't stop her from basing an evil genius on him in a Kit Morgan short considering he reminded her of an Elon Musk-like eccentric evil genius lurking in his tech cave and having trouble adapting to the whole 'being human' thing. The best part about it all? Idunn, Thor and Loki's parents were named Trevor and Julie.

Quinn perked up. "Ooh, here's Jenny."

Somehow Daria had managed to forget the utter humiliation that was getting professionally fitted for dress clothes, but it all came rushing back as some sallow-faced old matron that looked like she wouldn't have been out of place in a black-and-white photo of a Spanish Influenza hospital critically inspected her in her granny panties before informing Daria exactly where her boobs should be for someone of her age and weight, and proceeding with a literal hands-on demonstration. She had dated guys who took _years_ to be allowed to get to that point. Still, it could have been worse. Daria could have got that teenage trainee who'd looked up from her cell phone only long enough to tell Iddie that she looked good, innit, for an old lady.

"I can't believe I'm doing this. Again."

"Stop whining." Quinn said, handing the dress over the top of the cubicle. "You're the maid of honour. And as the maid of honour that means your primary function is to support your best friend no matter how crazy she gets and _suck it up_."

"Yes, Mother." Daria grumbled, banging against the wall of her stall as she lost her footing trying to step out of her trousers. She looked at the thing that her sister had hung over the door. "Oh, you've _got_ to be kidding."

"Hey, it's not _my_ choice. It's cute, in that sort of shabby-chic arty hipster way. Jane's like that, right?"

Daria picked up a fluorescent green layered sleeve and let it drop. She'd look like Oscar the Grouch had been doused in toxic waste, and as much as she hated to admit it, it was entirely possible that it was a choice Jane made with sound mind for the sake of artist integrity and rebelling against the wedding industry and all that crap. "Against my better judgement, I suppose she is."

She opened the door to the cubicle and stepped out the same time Iddie did. Daria blinked at her.

"Good god."

Iddie cocked a hip. For her model-like form, Jane had shoehorned her into a bright yellow confection with a tight skirt, tulle bunched around her hips making her look she was digesting a bowling ball, and a weird fringed shawl in the same eye-catching shade across her shoulders. She flung the shawl across her eyes like she was the Phantom of the Opera about to menacingly sweep out of the room. "I feel like I should be trawling Whitechapel for johns in 1888."

Daria's lips quirked in a grin.

"Hello, slutty Big Bird."

"She looks fantastic." Quinn snapped. "The job of a bridesmaid is to make the bride look _better_ in comparison. Rule of thumb is you don't have standards until after the ceremony and then you never have to wear whatever horror-show of a dress she put you in ever again."

Daria just looked at her sister. "Well, _you're_ the expert."

Quinn's eyes narrowed like she was waiting for the punch-line.

"Expert what?" Jane called from the change rooms. "Y'all finished, or would you like more time to talk about me behind my back?"

"Just get out here already, woman."

"Don't deny me my compulsive need to be the centre of attention." She replied. "I know I said I didn't want to go the typical wedding dress route, but this was on sale and Quinn's buddy helped me make a few alterations and I couldn't help myself."

"As long as it doesn't put you and Thor into debt for the next ten years, I think you're fine." Daria said.

"Okay, I'm coming out."

"Should we be scared that you're warning us to brace?"

"Oh, ha."

And Jane swept out of the change room, skirts swishing to a stop, hands fidgeting uncomfortably. "So. How do I look?"

Daria blinked.

"Wow."

"Is that good or bad?"

"Jane, you look _great_." Quinn clapped her hands.

"Really?" An uncertain look crossed her face, the vulnerable look out of place on her. Daria guessed that weddings really can make anyone lose their mind, no matter how stable they seemed on the surface. The dress she'd picked was a simple A-line, the skirt trailing out like a peacock's, but the one detail that was purely Jane Lane started at the very hem of the skirt, colours bleeding upwards through the layers of lace and satin and giving it the appearance of having been trailed through ink.

"It's really you, Jane."

"I know it's _me,_ but does it look _good?"_

"You and your neurotic need for complements." Daria shook her head.

"You look beautiful." Iddie said.

"More than beautiful." Quinn put in.

"Positively pedestrian." Daria said.

"Oh, Daria, you _do_ gush so."

"Come on, let's pay for this garbage and get out of here. This place gives me the creeps." Daria looked down at the flared green velvet despairingly. Jane blinked, and then grinned.

"Hold on, you didn't think I was _serious_ about those dresses, did you?"

"What?" Her voice was flat.

"Come on, Daria, I'm _insulted_ that you thought I'd do that to you. Just _insulted._ As long as you're there it doesn't matter if you're in hot pants and flip-flops."

"Then what the hell was this all about?"

"Well, you know my showman-ish flair when it comes to boastful self-promotion." Jane said. "How _else_ was I going to get you voluntarily into a bridal boutique?"

"Kill you. I will kill you and no one will _ever_ find the body _."_

* * *

Despite herself, Daria had to admit that Quinn had done one hell of a job turning the roof of the ex-industrial building from a storage space where people chucked their old couches and dilapidated lawnmower parts into something quite pretty, though she suspected that it was Stacy's influence that kept the ropes of flowers and fairy lights more casual bohemian and less Barbie's-hippie-sister-is-getting-married. A couple of Trent's DJs had lugged an old wrought-iron archway up the stairs which Stacy had threaded with lights and flowers, a red prop carpet leading from the stairwell to the arch like something out of _the Bachelor._ An assortment of tables and fold-out chairs sat haphazardly in random places, draped with material offcuts and tied back with bows to disguise the fact that Trent had found most of them hidden away in the back of Z93's utility cupboard covered with paint and other suspicious stains.

Daria floated through the assembled collection of odd people under the guise of making sure everything was going to go off without a hitch and studiously ignoring anyone who tried to get the maid of honour's attention. For weeks now, Trent had been warning his neighbours that it might get loud up here, and judging by the setup Max had carted up the stairs that he was busy assembling on the makeshift stage, they weren't going to disappoint. Nick and Jesse were there too: Jane had recruited them to play while she went down the aisle. Daria couldn't help but find the situation vaguely absurd, Jesse the rocker who looked the part, backed up by the respectable businessman on drums and the middle-aged dad on bass. Seriously, the three of them should have their own sitcom on CBS. It practically wrote itself.

To the one side, Helen and Quinn were studiously supervising the last of the preparations. To the other, Jake was in a deep conversation with the celebrant, a big black man that looked like he could moonlight as a superhero. Daria couldn't make out what they were talking about, but whatever it was, it seemed to involve a lot of handwaving and manic grins.

"Don't be stupid."

Her ears perked up and she drifted in the direction of the potential chaos. It was Trent's voice, sounding annoyed.

"C'mon, man, she didn't hightail it after that thing in Maui, you'll be fine."

_Definitely_ sounding annoyed.

She followed the voices to where Trent and Thor were standing to one side of the stairwell. Thor's face was sunken and grey while Trent looked frustrated, arms folded in a huff. Or the closest he ever got to a huff. Hearing her approach, Trent looked up at her.

He spoke before she could get a word out. "Tell this moron Janey's not about to ditch him."

"What?" Daria blinked. "Thor, of course not! Are you insane?"

"I dunno." He shrugged dejectedly. "I just… what if she gets out here and comes to the sudden realisation that all of this was just a brief moment of psychosis-"

She stared at him. They had been together for years now. They'd been _arrested_ together and he was only having second thoughts _now_?

"Why are you suddenly thinking that it's all going to be some great upheaval? Thor, you've been living together for six years. You've co-signed a _lease_. What would getting married actually change apart from next-of-kin in case of a catastrophic wood-chipper accident?" Daria demanded. "So strap it on, suck in your gut, and let's get this party started."

It wasn't exactly Life-changing Advice with Tony Robbins, but it seemed to do the trick as his chest puffed out and he started to look a little less startled bunny-ish.

"Yeah. Yeah, okay, you're right."

"You're damn right she's right." Jane stepped out of the stairwell, multicoloured skirts trailing behind her. "Do you really think I'd just piss away all the time I've spent on getting you the way I want you?" Finger under his chin, she snapped Thor's mouth closed. "That makes you look like another slack-jawed idiot. Now, get back over there and wait for me."

"Yes, ma'am."

As Thor strode back to the arch, a new spring to his step, Trent ran his hand wearily down his face. "I'm _done_ with weddings."

"Good to know." Daria gave him an amused look. "Always the bridesmaid?"

"Always the one talking people off the ledge." He countered. "Max got cold feet when him and Elle tied the knot, tried to shoot through to Atlantic City. And Tox was _so damn sure_ that Gems was gonna do a runner."

"Who?"

"Toxic and Gemini Benson, they're the Oakwood DJs. You met them at the benefit dinner." Trent reminded her gently.

"The guy that looks like Brad Pitt circa _Thelma & Louise_." Jane said. "The girl that looks like Courtney Love circa _Hole_."

"Oh, right."

"And speaking of slack-jawed idiots-" Jane turned to Trent, her eyes shining. "I kind of found some people on the landing."

Her brother narrowed his eyes at her.

"Oh, _this_ sounds promising." Daria said.

And that was when Jane and Trent's brother Wind tumbled out of the stairwell in a powder-blue suit that looked like he'd last worn it to his prom in the eighties.

"Jane! Trent!"

Not given ample time to brace for impact, Trent almost lost his footing as his brother hugged him tightly, like somewhere in the back of Wind's head they were two tragic brothers that hadn't seen each other in thirty years because they'd been on opposite sides of a civil war or something.

Daria's eyebrows rose. "Want me to get the butter? Or maybe the prying bar?"

The brothers ignored her. "What are you doing here, Wind?"

"What sort of question is that? Our baby sister is getting _married_! I wasn't going to stay away, I love weddings!"

Daria's eyes narrowed. "I suppose that's why you've had so many."

Jane glanced at her. "Taking part in overly-clichéd matrimonial events really bring out the best in you, don't they?"

"Oh, indubitably."

Their mom followed not far behind, in a floaty floral thing Daria was pretty sure had hung in the living room window at Casa Lane at one stage, a dreamy look on her face. Even Penny had dressed up. Of course, for _that_ globe-trotting sister, 'dressed up' meant breaking out the _good_ shorts.

Trent blinked. "Mom? Dad?"

"And Summer and Penny." Wind added, in case Trent had somehow forgotten.

"Trent, come here, my darling." Amanda threw her arms wide around her youngest son and Trent was stiff for a moment before relaxing into his mom's embrace. Looking at the Lane family, Daria understood more and more why Jane and Trent weren't physically demonstrative. They went along existing in a world where their only familial connection was to each other, only to be overloaded with affection whenever Vincent and Amanda remembered that it was actually supposed to be part and parcel of the whole _parenting_ thing they bought into.

Jane was grinning like a loon.

Amanda drew back, one hand on the splint on Trent's wrist.

"Before we left, I sent you some alternative medications the monks assured me would help with the pain. They should be here in a couple of weeks."

Daria zeroed in on the words _alternative medications_ and bit the flesh at the base of her thumb so she wouldn't actually scoff aloud. Trent kept his opinions to himself and just smiled, knowing that however clueless his folks were, ultimately their hearts were in the right place.

"Thanks, Mom."

"Mom, you didn't become an accidental drug mule again, did you?" Summer frowned, probably the most practical and grounded one among the Lane family. "You can't just give your bags to some guy on a donkey."

"Tell me about it." Penny groused.

"That's enough, children." Vincent Lane interrupted gently in that non-confrontational way of his. He straightened the lapels of his truly awful jacket and offered his arm to Jane. "Shall we get a wriggle on?"

"Actually, Dad…" Jane's eyes darted away from her father. "There's kind of been a last-last-last-minute change of plans."

He looked confused for a moment before simply accepting her decision and rolling with it, like he'd always done. "Of course, sweetheart."

"What change of plans?" Daria asked. "As the maid of honour, I'm supposed to be privy to changes of plans. It's in the rule book."

"Well, considering I only decided about three minutes ago, forgive me for not queuing up the Jumbotron." Jane turned to Trent, hand outstretched, still grinning. She arched an eyebrow. "Hey slacker, how would you feel about giving me away in this medieval exchange of goods?"

Trent looked genuinely startled. And then he grinned brightly.

"I'm going to take that idiotic expression as an acceptance in the affirmative." Daria said. She turned back to the stage where Jesse was fiddling with his electric. "Jesse! All system's a go. Time to get this damn show on the road so we can all go home!"

He nodded at her and flashed a thumbs-up. After a moment the music Jane had chosen to walk down the aisle to blared across the rooftop, and her eyes narrowed.

"The _Terminator_ theme? Really?"

"It seemed somehow appropriate for a wedding." Jane said.

* * *

During the vows, Wind was openly sobbing, while even Trent looked a touch misty-eyed ( _I've got the flu, Daria)_. Quinn stood with her arms linked with Simon and Stacy ( _now there's an odd little triad)_ and her folks sat with Jane's and Thor's folks. The celebrant declared them man and wife, and Jane had spun Thor into a low dip, kissing him thoroughly. Unable to regain his balance at the sudden change of elevation, the big man went down hard on his backside, pulling Jane down on top of him.

"No shame." Daria said. "At _all_."

"The ass back into class." Trent had shrugged.

Thor's best man ruthlessly roasted his nuts, and then his dad gave a speech about responsibility and maturity and all that crap. Jane's dad gave a predictable speech about kites and butterflies, and then to Daria and Jane's surprise, Thor invited _her_ dad to talk. Helen fixed his tie before Jake timidly got to his feet.

"I hope no one minds, but Thor asked me to say a few words." He fiddled nervously with the napkin he was holding.

"Anyone who knows me knows that I'm what you'd call kind of unobservant." He said, and a small laugh went around the guests. "So when I came downstairs to find out that I suddenly seemed to have gained a surrogate daughter, it _sort of_ took me by surprise."

Jane blushed brilliantly, and Thor squeezed her hand.

"At first, she was just my eldest daughter's best friend, a conduit we could go to, to avoid alienating our kiddo. But over the years, I and my wife have been honoured to see the amazing and beautiful woman that Jane Lane has grown into, and I hope we will be privileged enough to see what she's yet to become. I know it's gonna be big, and with Thor cheering you on from the stands, I know nothing'll stop you. Great going, Jane-o, I know you'll knock 'em dead, 'cause there's nothing you can't do when you find someone who's your brand of crazy. Jane and Thor!" Jake raised his drink in a toast and Daria's glass immediately joined his. After everyone had drunk, her dad looked around uncertainly like he'd somehow overstepped the mark. "Well, that's it, I'm done. Hope I passed the audition."

"Oh, Jakey." Helen kissed his cheek.

Daria smiled. "Not bad, _Jakey_."

"Thor asked me." Jake repeated as he sat back down. "And it's probably the closest I'm going to get to giving _you_ away."

Damn it, he wasn't even _trying_ to be subtle.

"Dad." Daria frowned, thinking back to Jane's throwaway marriage line earlier."I'm _not_ getting married. Is there some conspiracy here going on that I don't know about?" She hoped not. _God_ , she hoped not. She'd only just got somewhat adjusted to having to share a bathroom with a guy again.

"Don't be paranoid." Her mom said. "By the way, matt cream or silky satin for the place cards?"

She glared. "You're _not_ funny."

"Can we have cake now?" Thor's little nephew loudly complained. "I want cake now!"

_That_ , Daria could identify with.

Definitely.

"Why do you suppose weddings always have to be so... _nauseating_?"

"To make all the unmarrieds feel inadequate." Trent flicked an invisible bit of fluff off his sleeve, casting Daria an amused look which she immediately read.

"If you say _'never the bride'_ I'll stab you in the jugular with my shrimp fork."

"What makes you think I don't want you to? I'm going out for drinks after with my dad, my nephews, and _Wind_."

"He's your brother. He's not that bad."

" _You_ haven't spent more than a few hours with the guy." He retorted. "Looking at me and Janey, Penny and Summer, I'm about eighty percent sure my folks took home the wrong baby."

Daria smirked.

Both she and Trent were sitting on the edge of the makeshift stage. Jesse had performed a few songs already, and had promised Daria he was going to get Trent up on stage at some point in the night while the drinks were flowing and inhibitions were lowered. He was going to make it his _mission_ , he said, to get Trent to perform again.

Uh-huh. She'd believe it when she saw it. Trent didn't exactly seem disappointed that he'd left the unemployed penniless grunge rocker behind. He said Jesse's lifestyle was a nice place to visit and all, but he wouldn't want to live there. But still, maybe she'd be able to convince him to sing _Icebox Woman_ to her later, completely for nostalgia's sake, you understand. Trent shifted, and Daria caught a glimpse of a familiar black spiral-bound book jammed in a back pocket.

"Huh."

"What?" He saw where she was looking. "Oh, yeah. You never know when inspiration'll strike."

Her head tilted, a small smile playing about her lips. "And you'll need something to kill it with?"

"Ha, Daria." His eyebrow rose. "I... was... kind of thinking about writing a song about you."

And like that her mind went blank, like someone had switched off the part of her brain capable of rational thought. _Oh my_ God _, Morgendorffer, will you get a_ grip _! You are a worldly, intelligent, independent_ grown woman _, damn it! Snap_ out _of it!_

Her eyes narrowed.

"You mean 'Nuclear Bitch' _wasn't_ about me?"

He laughed.

"As much as I admire the sentiment behind it, in hindsight I really don't think I could survive the possibility of becoming one of those _Cecilias,_ the _Billie Jeans_ or _Laylas._ My ego can only take so much."

"Cool."

"Trent?"

"Yeah?"

She reached into her pocket and withdrew a small box.

"Happy birthday, hon."

She didn't know whether it was a deliberate choice or not, but everything had seemed to fall together all at once on Trent's birthday. Not that he seemed to _mind_ , though, considering that Jane's wedding took the heat off him turning the big 4-0.

"Thanks, babe." He kissed her on the cheek.

"You don't even know what it _is_ yet."

"Picky, picky." Shaking his head, he opened the box.

And withdrew a key.

"It's not much." Daria said. "And I know I've had one to _yours_ for months now, but I-"

Trent cut her off with a kiss.

"This is perfect, Daria." He smiled at her, and while other people may have been bitter about not getting a key earlier, or that getting one might have been such a non-event that they may have glossed over it entirely and wondered why she was making such a fuss out of it, she knew that Trent _got_ it. He understood the utter enormity and commitment in Daria giving him the key to her apartment, even if she couldn't bring herself to say the things she was thinking."Really. This is the best thing I've gotten today."

"Don't speak so fast." Daria smirked. "Jane and the band still haven't given you their presents yet."

"Oh, _God_."

"Don't be like that. _I_ got to hold the iguana."

"That _better_ be a euphemism for something."

"Heh."

_fin._

...

..

.

* * *

 


End file.
